


Could It Be Magic?

by arcanine



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Getting Together, Investigations, Long-lost Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Magician Baz, Mild Stalker Simon, Older SnowBaz, Reunions, Stage Magic, Weary Stage Magician Abracabazra, bad disguises, magic sharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:40:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26662342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcanine/pseuds/arcanine
Summary: When Baz left Watford top of his class, he never expected to end up as a thirty-four year old stage magician, performing party tricks to unruly children and dozing old-age pensioners. And when he spots a man with bad trainers and a fake moustache lurking in the crowd at every performance, he never expects to find him so familiar.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 101
Kudos: 138





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NineMagicks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/gifts).



> This fic is based entirely on an idea that was thought up by [NineMagicks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/pseuds/NineMagicks)! I got kinda obsessed with it from the moment I first saw it mentioned and I was so glad to be given the chance to write about magic and bad disguises.
> 
> Nena, I adore you and our niche British AU/cursed childhood tv chats. Thank you for making me laugh all the time and for letting me steal your jokes and ideas. I hope that I can make you laugh at least a bit in return, and that this not-really-a-surprise gift fic is something you enjoy!
> 
> Huge thank you to [waterwings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterwings/pseuds/waterwings) for being a wonderful beta reader and friend. Your support and enthusiasm means the world to me <3

**SIMON**

Today's a fake moustache kinda day. No beard though. Beards are for special occasions like corporate events and fancy pub nights. They're way too formal for a 5th birthday party, or at least I _think_ they are. I don’t usually spend much time at kid’s parties. Probably for the best really. It’s absolute chaos here. The day’s sweltering hot and there are children everywhere, screaming and charging around the garden while their parents chat and try their best to ignore them.

A weaker man would be driven mad by all the noise, but not me. I count it as a blessing. Because the madness means no one's paying attention to me. It means I can slip by unnoticed.

See, I wasn't technically invited here. But that’s a minor detail. Completely insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Superheroes don’t worry about being invited in before they charge into burning buildings to save the day, and that’s basically what I am. A hero. I'm only here for the benefit of society. (I mean… _probably_.)

I've got a great spot, sandwiched between a wooden fence and a Bouncy Castle. It's already a step-up from the BT work-do infiltration. (Someone asked me if I was Gav from Wales and I foolishly said yes. I had to try and keep an accent going the whole time.) The fake moustache itches, but I won’t let that dampen my spirits. I won’t even dwell on the fact that it's a bit pathetic that I'm well into my thirties and I still can't grow my own. My disguise is top-notch today. Positioned here, with my sunglasses on, there's no way I'll ever be recognised.

And I really don’t want to be recognised.

I let my gaze slide towards him again. He’s on the other side of the garden, poised behind a pop-up table with a gaggle of children gazing up at him like he’s as rare and spectacular as a sodding unicorn. There's a dark star-splotched tablecloth lined with neatly stacked cards and a huge bunch of flowers he just pulled out of nowhere. It’s all cheap and fake looking, the kind of stuff I always thought he’d scoff at with disdain, but that's basically what he's doing, isn’t he? His lips are mere millimeters away from a sneer. He’s the only birthday party magician in the country who could be this showy and dramatic and still look three seconds away from wanting to kill something.

_Abracabazra._

Or as I always knew him… _Baz Pitch._

He's aged well, I think, like one of those fine cheeses that just gets better over time. I haven’t seen him up close since school, but he still looks perfect from where I’m standing—all posh and polished, not a hair out of place, while my own hair’s a frizzy mess, getting wilder by the minute in this humidity. It’s hard to tell how much he’s changed under that billowing black cape, but I bet he’s still lean and muscular. I’d have to see him in his football kit to make a proper judgement though. (Does he still play football?) (Is there some kind of magician's five-a-side league? Gloves vs top hats, maybe?)

He’s wearing both today. Gloves and a top hat. He’s dressed in far too many layers for a sticky day in August, and it makes me sweat just looking at him. I mean, he’s wearing a _cravat,_ for fuck’s sake. Who does that? I scribble _cream coloured cravat_ on a crumpled post-it note that I find in my pocket, then file it away for later. I’ve been keeping track of his varying neckwear on a corkboard above my couch. Results are inconclusive so far, but he’s a big fan of bow-ties, which is highly suspicious if you ask me. Nothing weird about cataloguing your old rival’s dressy accessories, right? If the Coven arrest Baz for illegal magic use one day, they’ll be thrilled to know he favoured red pinstripes on July 29th.

I'm listening out for any magic use right now. Baz is just about audible over the cake-fuelled commotion, voice as deep and posh as it used to be when he’d sneer spells that'd tie my shoelaces together and make me fall on my arse. He always commanded the room back then; enunciating every word, making sure the whole class was aware that he knew bloody everything. But he's not projecting it now. His voice sounds flatter, somehow. He speaks as though he's spilling monotone secrets and makes you lean in closer to hear them.

He has this way of making you listen.

The kids perched on the grass in front of him seem to be buying it. I’m convinced Baz must be using some charm or other to hold their attention. Can’t see any other reason they’d be looking at him when there’s a perfectly good Colin the Caterpillar cake right there on the buffet table. I mean… he's just so _serious_. It's not like I'm expecting him to be throwing himself around like Mr Blobby or anything, but he hasn't even cracked a smile yet.

"What a spectacle,” I hear him drone as he points down at the table. “A lagomorph, emerging from my top hat like a devastating cliche. Who could've predicted that?"

I bite back the urge to heckle him. _A lago-what?_ I'd shout if I could. _It's a rabbit, you posh bastard!_

But the kids seem impressed enough, their heads following the tawny brown bunny as it hops once and then settles down like it’s only willing to do the bare minimum.

I'm lacking information on the accomplice. Is he Baz's pet? Are they strictly co-workers? It’s hard to imagine Baz taking care of a rabbit, but it’s hard to believe any of this really. He used to summon sharp insults out of nowhere, but now he's summoning lethargic looking mammals from hats.

How did he end up here? What has he been doing for the last fifteen years?

That's what I'm trying to find out.

I wish I could do things the old fashioned way—storm over and get in his face until he gives me answers—but that never worked much before. I don’t even know if he’d remember me.

(Would he remember me?)

(I think he would.)

We only have limited brain space for memories. Maybe I’ve been pushed out completely, replaced with a _how to make balloon animals_ tutorial, because apparently that's a skill Baz has now. His hands are moving at lightning speed, and the kids are going wild for it. I’m studying his technique, trying to work out if he’s using magic when something crashes into my legs. I look down and find a small girl staring up at me.

“I win!” she announces, and I jump back in alarm.

“Win what?” I ask, looking over my shoulder to see if anyone else has spotted me.

“Hide and seek. I found you. I win!"

“Oh." I flash her a quick smile. "Uh, good job. Well done. Best finder in the world." I give her an encouraging but dismissive thumbs up, and she just beams at me. Her two front teeth are missing.

“What shall we play next?”

“Uh,” I say, and I’m about to suggest _being invisible_ or _silent statues_ or _leaving Simon alone,_ when my gaze locks on Baz. “Do…do you like magic?”

I offer Sophie—that’s her name, by the way—a 50 pence piece if she brings me back some information on Baz. She talks me up to a £2 coin and a packet of Skittles, and I woefully accept the deal. It's a terrible mistake. She’s unreliable at best, pausing at the buffet table on her way to gather intel and wasting at least two minutes biting the tops off cucumber sticks and chucking the ends on the grass. But she does make her way to Baz eventually. I watch them talking, and even from over here I can tell his replies are curt. How the bloody hell he ended up in children’s entertainment, I’ll never know.

“What did he say?” I ask her, when we reconvene by the fence. “Tell me everything.”

“He said it’s a dog,” she says, scrutinising the lime green balloon animal clutched between her fingers. “ _Is_ it a dog?”

“Yeah. Looks like it. So... anything else? Any useful info?”

“He’s got a rabbit,” Sophie tells me.

“You’re right! He does. What’s it called? Did you find out its name, or…”

“It’s a dog," she says, staring wistfully at her balloon animal, "but I wish it was a unicorn."

Maybe this is why people don't normally hire five year olds. Her attention span is dire, and I think she’s forgotten all about the sweets and the £2 coin already. I’m starting to think Sophie’s not apprentice material.

"I’m sure the nice magic man could make you a unicorn,” I say, nodding encouragingly. “Why don't you go back? And if you could grab me one of those shiny magic coins while you're there, then-"

“I’m going to play horses now,” Sophie announces, and then she gallops off, dropping the dog carelessly at my feet. I slip it into my backpack so I can file it away for later. _Proof of real magic:_ _unnaturally firm balloon dog._

I've gathered all kinds of evidence now. My investigation has taken me to just about every corner of London. Restaurants, private parties, a seaside retirement home—that one was particularly challenging. I follow the trail of stage names he leaves behind— _Bazracadabra_ , _Alabazam_ , _The Amazing_ _Bazmatazz_. I think he varies them because he doesn’t want anyone to track him down. Because he’s definitely up to something.

Penny thinks I'm mental. She found out when she came round to my laughably small basement flat a couple of weeks ago, and now she keeps going on rants about my questionable behaviour, all _stalker blog_ this and _murder wall_ that. She says she's too old for all this. That booking time off from my crappy job to go to Baz's shows is just like fifth year again. In a way, I guess it is. I knew he was using banned spells back then too. I followed him around trying to prove it, but only because we slept in the same room. I was sure he’d find a way around the Anathema and curse me in my sleep. I had to look out for myself.

And now…now I just want answers.

I never expected to see him again. I'd barely thought about any of that stuff in over a decade. The World of Mages lost interest when I lost my magic, so it all just felt like a dream to me, like I'd fixated so hard on some Chosen One film as a kid that I started to believe it really happened. I was minding my own business; a Normal bloke in a Normal world. And Baz had to go and drag me back into it.

It was a couple of months ago, when it happened. It was the weirdest thing. One minute I was strolling through Walthamstow, and the next thing I knew, all the hairs on my arms were standing on end. It was like a ghost had just whizzed through my body or something. I stopped, and then my legs were moving on their own, pulling me inside of a pub like I was perched on top of a giant magnet. I followed my feet, because I had no other choice. I followed the feeling and it led me straight to him.

There was a small crowd gathered at the back of the pub, so I pushed forward. I found dim lights. A small stage. And _him_ right there at the centre of everything, the way he always used to be. My old enemy and roommate. _Baz._

I watched his whole act that day. Lurked behind a couple of large blokes in football shirts like a weirdo—my mouth half hanging open, barely managing to catch my breath. There were cheap tricks at first—all scarves and cards—but I couldn’t stop looking. My heart was pounding so hard I was surprised he didn’t hear it.

He wasn’t the same as he used to be. It wasn’t just that he was older. There was something different about him—his energy, maybe, or the way he carried himself. Maybe I’d just never viewed him as a real person before. I’d never considered him to be anything other than _evil_ or _smug_. I started to wonder if I’d got the wrong person. If this was some Baz lookalike, or a secret long lost twin.

And then two white doves appeared. There was nothing special about them, really. They were about as ordinary as two doves in a pub could be. They started circling around the Baz-alike, faster and faster, until they were barely more than a blur. They dived and swooped around him until he said something—I didn’t catch what—and they burst into sparks, disappearing into a mesmerising display of the world’s tiniest fireworks. It was brilliant and colourful and it was magic. _Real_ magic.

I could feel it.

It was like a secret only I knew. Everyone else was none the wiser, offering occasional applause and mildly impressed noises, but I couldn’t clap. I refused to. Because it felt like he’d kicked me in teeth. How could he just do that so casually? How could he waste real magic on Normals, when I’d spent the last fifteen years with the lack of it aching like I was missing a limb? An anger that I hadn't felt in years bubbled inside me and it lingered like a bad taste in my mouth.

But I stayed there until long after he’d left the building. I couldn’t move a muscle.

I can't now either. Baz is striking a pose, gearing up for his grand finale, and I can hear him clearly, even from where I’m standing.

“Thank you for your attention. I’m Abracabazra, and I know you're all overheating, so before I go... **_let it snow._ ”**

I cast my gaze up. And on a sweltering day in August, with nothing but blue skies above us, but a single cloud appears over us and -

“Snow!” a child yells, and the world bursts into chaos. A flurry of white flakes shimmers down, and the kids are squealing so loudly that a nearby neighbour pops her head out of the window to investigate. The children are going nuts, jumping around and laughing, while their parents nod in appreciation and murmur about realistic snow machines. I reach out my hand to let some fall on my fingers. It feels icy and real as it melts in my hand.

Baz takes a bow. When he straightens up, I swear he glances my way, but his eyes are cold and vacant. I almost wish he'd sneer at me. At least then there'd be some proof that he's still alive in there.

But he doesn’t see me. He never does.

**BAZ**

Another day, another musty venue. Tonight was a 60th birthday party in the basement function room of a working men’s club. A balding man with sweaty palms just pressed three horrifically damp £20 notes into my hands, and I'm not sure why I bothered to get out of bed. Why I’m out here entertaining the unappreciative masses when I could be at home, flopped horizontal on my sofa and rotting my brain watching reruns of _Bargain Hunt._ I’m not getting paid nearly enough for this.

My mother always said I was a magician, but she never meant _this_. She'd have despaired, knowing I'd become a mockery to the World of Mages. A cheap, watered down, version of all that I should be. A 29p tin of Tesco Value stew stacked among a shelf of gourmet delights.

This wasn't the plan. No one wakes up and thinks, _today I'd like to perform card tricks to a half-empty audience who can barely be arsed to listen._ But I already lost the last fragments of my dignity when I made my hundredth balloon animal. There's no use trying to scrape it back now.

At least there were no untoward incidents this evening. Fiona hasn’t dropped by any of my performances lately, so they’ve all been frightfully dull—no rows with pensioners over what is and isn’t appropriate language, no Christmas trees plummeting to the ground and smashing baubles—both of which occurred at the same end of year party where I performed for an elderly choir.

I’ve barred Fiona from every venue, which naturally makes her all the more keen to drop by. That’s why I vary my stage names wildly, ferrying through them in the hope that it’ll be too much effort for her to track me down. I like the freedom it gives me. The fact that no one in the world cares enough to pay attention to my various identities.

Except…Well. There is that one person.

 _Bad Trainers Man_. That's what I call him. I likely wouldn’t have noticed his repeat visits at all were it not for those low-quality mud-streaked monstrosities stomping across the carpet of various venues. They caught my eye on several occasions, snagging my attention like a loose thread on my favourite cashmere. And now I can’t stop seeing him everywhere—my shows, my nightmares—lurking in the shadows, his large unfashionable moustache poking around every corner.

My job often feels like working in an airport. There's a tight schedule and a constant flow of faces - none of them the same, none of them worth remembering. A brief stopover with _Alakabazmatazzle_ or whatever painfully ridiculous name I’m using that day, and then they’re gone and forgotten, have a safe trip and kindly never darken my door again. The crowds all blur into one until there’s no way of distinguishing between balding man number five hundred and sixty-three from the rest of them. I don’t get repeat visitors. It just doesn’t happen.

And that's what unsettles me. Does this man attend every party in London? Or is he someone from that wretched Magician’s Association that keeps trying to scout me into membership. Perhaps he's out to steal my act, or to recruit me to be his partner on _Britain’s Got Talent_ series nine hundred and one.

Either way, I have no interest. I want no involvement in their endeavors.

Only...sometimes I catch a glimpse of him, and even from across the room, there’s this overwhelming tug of familiarity. Something stirs in my stomach, and for a moment I almost dare to consider that he’s someone I knew once in another life, another world. Sometimes, a name I haven’t dared to think in years attempts to barge its way into my consciousness, but I shake it off before it even dares to form.

Because it’s impossible. _Truly_ impossible.

It’s not even worth thinking about.

Central London’s as dreary as ever when I step outside. I pause to catch my breath after lugging all my equipment upstairs, though it’s difficult to say the air is any fresher up here than than it was in the basement. The sun has faded and it's drizzling hard, but the huge plastic case I ferry around is only filled with useless artifacts, instead of _useful_ things like an umbrella in England. I stand on the pavement as throngs of people shove past, glaring at the shit-ton of baggage stacked behind me. They can go around it. I'll cast a **make way** if I have to so the whole damn city parts for me. I dream about it so often—shifting all the towering buildings and leaving only empty space, so I can breathe again, so the world stops feeling like it's closing in. I cradle my rabbit's pet carrier close to my chest and attempt to flog down a taxi.

“You worked hard tonight,” I tell him as we wait. “I’ve a bunch of organic carrots at home with your name on it.”

He glares at me and turns away, and I can't help but feel a slight sting of rejection. He's my closest friend and my most tolerable work colleague, but he only likes me when I'm feeding him. And he never forgives me for the pet carrier.

Regardless of the cold shoulder he offers me, I still shield him with my cloak when we're splashed with water from the side of the road. At least three taxis have driven past us now, and not one of them has had the good grace to stop for us. It feels painfully common to get my mobile out and ring one, but it appears I have no other choice.

I'm reaching into my pocket when I hear an ear-shattering clatter from behind me. I turn towards the sound and it's chaos. My case has toppled over. The lid’s completely unfastened. There are playing cards—my _best_ playing cards—flying everywhere, whipping around in the wind like a bad game of Uno Extreme.

And there's a man crouched down beside the spillage, studying the contents like it's a page from _Magicians for Dummies_. And not just any man. _The_ man. Mr Mud-Scuffed Moustache himself.

His trainers are even more tragic up close. They’re unbranded, for a start—most likely Shoe Zone’s finest—and that mud is clearly ancient. Perhaps even older than me. He grabs a few scattered cards and starts shoving them back into my case with no caution or care. He reaches towards a blue silk scarf that once belonged to my mother.

"Don’t touch that,” I snarl, and he startles at the sound of my voice, his hand freezing in place. I drop down beside him on the filthy pavement, placing my rabbit down next to me.

And then he looks at me, and I almost choke on my own breath.

Because for a second, I’m convinced that—

That those blue eyes couldn’t possibly belong to anyone else but—

“S-Sorry,” he stammers, and Crowley, that voice. That _voice._ "I was just trying to—"

He turns his face away too quickly, leaving me with no opportunity to confirm or deny my insanity. He looks down at my scattered belongings, his hand hovering. I reach out without taking my eyes off him, scooping the scarf up gently.

"You’ve done quite enough,” I snip. “I don’t require your help.”

He huffs out a breath. And then crouched beside me on a busy walkway, with all my embarrassing secrets spilled literally before us on the pavement, he turns to glare.

And suddenly, there's no air left in the universe.

People are never quite the way you remember them. Memory's an unreliable thing. Details fade and blur. I preserved Simon Snow in my mind as some untouchable hero. A glossy, polished image bursting from the pages of a book that I always desperately wanted to read on repeat.

But he's nothing like that, knelt before me, up close.

He's real _._ And… _different_. Older and stockier and less boyish. He's a man now _,_ and a ridiculous one at that, if the lopsided fake moustache fixed above his lips is anything to go by. For a second, I can barely believe that I spent so long obsessing over him. But then he blinks those blue eyes at me and every part of me weakens. Fifteen years since we last saw each other. Fifteen seconds with him, and I'm slipping back in time.

"Snow?" I say, because it's the only phrase I can summon. No questions. No demands. Just his name on a loop in my mind, exactly the way it used to be.

"No," he says quickly, and he tilts his head towards the sky "Uh, it doesn’t look like it. I think it’s just rain actually?"

“ _Simon,_ ” I say, and he flinches. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

His eyes are wild and panicked. I can practically hear his pulse thrumming over the chatter and the traffic. "Sorry. Who’s Simon? Never heard of him. My name's Steve. Steven Smoke! And I'm really late for a thing, so I've gotta, uh—bye!"

He pushes to an upright position and charges off, dodging through the crowd so rapidly that I almost believe it. That _I'm_ the one in the wrong here. That I've just accosted some poor stranger who looks near-identical to my old roommate because I've completely lost the plot.

Crowley, I hope so.

Because I can't even begin to consider the alternative.

That it's been him the whole time. Following me around like we're still fifteen. Watching me embarrass myself, dressed as a buffoon in a garish get-up. I don't know whether to be mortified or furious, so I settle on some brooding combination of both.

I don't notice until he's long gone. That a stack of my magic coins are missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more to come soon! find me over here on [tumblr](https://arca9.tumblr.com/) :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to anyone who gave this a read so far, to [NineMagicks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/pseuds/NineMagicks) for letting me turn your excellent ideas into this, and to [waterwings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterwings/pseuds/waterwings) for being so amazingly helpful when I was ready to fling my laptop out of the window!

**BAZ**

"Pick a card," I tell the woman in front of me, and her horror stricken expression is the most relatable thing I've seen all night. Her work colleagues forced her to come up here and participate. I’m not sure which of us wants to be here least.

I wish I could summon an ounce of enthusiasm, but I've been driven to distraction. My eyes keep scanning the room, passing over every face. I'm half-tempted to find some flimsy excuse to make everyone line up so I can examine the space under their noses. There’s a lot of facial hair at the pub tonight, but it's all real. No bad quality, muddy-brown joke shop specials in sight. _Steven_ ’s not here tonight _,_ and I'm almost disappointed about it.

Disappointed is the wrong term. Frustrated is more accurate. Or perhaps deranged would suffice. I've been surveying every shoe that's crossed my path for the last week like some kind of footwear fanatic—Nike Airs, Doc Martens, stilettos, Ugg boots. None of them were right. None of them were him _._

It pains me to admit that I'm even looking. I feel like a teenager again, like I hopped into a time machine and took my occasional grey hairs and lower back pain with me. I've dreamt about him three times this week. _Three separate incidents_ of being mocked by my subconscious. It’s a nightmare. _He’s_ a nightmare. This whole thing is far beyond what the most twisted corners of my mind could ever conjure.

Simon Snow doesn't exist in my world anymore. I have no plans to let him back in. I built up barricades years ago, a strict no entry sign with _No Simons_ scrawled across the centre, and I succeeded. I banished him completely.

And then he had the nerve to come back—crashing in the way he always used to, blasting the whole world into disarray.

I never heard the whole story of what happened to him. There were all kinds of rumours—dragons and lost magic—but all anyone would talk about was reforms and the Mage’s death. No one told me what I wanted to hear. Snow faded into obscurity, and I scoured over every write-up, lapping up any details I could find. It wasn't enough, but I could hardly ask around. I grieved in secret, while members of the Old Families pat me on the shoulder at the Club, congratulating me as though I’d stabbed Snow through the heart myself.

It was almost easier to pretend I had.

But it’s not so easy now. Now that I know that he’s out there. Real. So very _alive._

I perform the rest of the trick on auto-pilot. My rabbit’s not here tonight, and pathetic though it is, I wish that I’d brought him along. (He’d set me right, if he could speak.) (“ _Don’t think about him, Baz. I_ _gnore that fact that he pressed his human-sized paws all over your belongings the other night and bring me some cauliflower leaves_ —”)

“Is this yours?” I ask the woman abruptly, ending my showy shuffling so I can split the deck.

“Yes,” she says, nodding. Her expression has moved from terrified to impressed, though I can hardly imagine why. These tricks are all so simple that it hurts. I’m almost bored to tears. “That’s it. How did you—”

“Magic,” I say, with as much flair as I can muster.

And that’s when I hear it. The scrape of a chair. The squeak of rubber soles on the hardwood floor. My head snaps up, and the bright stage lights do nothing to impair my vision. I'd recognise that silhouette anywhere. Bad posture. Broad shoulders. More curls than he knows how to manage. Snow. _Simon._

I knew he'd be back. It's textbook Snow—the most reckless, nonsensical option. I hope he’s here to return the magic coins. No, I hope he’s here to prove this is all one big misunderstanding. That he’s just a coincidentally-identical man named Barry Blizzard who happens to be interested in magic tricks. I'd be overjoyed if this was all a hallucination, brought on by years of drinking slightly too much. Hell, I’d even take the Magicians Association over Snow. I’d sign up to join their tacky club right now, sequined red bow tie and all, if it meant that none of this was happening.

I picture myself in the bow tie, lined up next to all those balding men in the annual Christmas photo for their website, and it’s so horrific that I have to take a breath to compose myself. The thought of it is all too much. But at least it gives me something other than Snow to focus on. I have to be professional here. I can’t show weakness. There are thirty people in the room right now, and at least three of them are paying attention.

I attempt to breeze through the rest of my act, but I fail quite spectacularly. My hand fumbles over a simple trick, and I cringe. I could perform this routine in my sleep. I’m too old for mistakes like this, too well-practised.

But I can’t stop looking at him. He won’t stop staring at me.

I finish my act through gritted teeth. The audience barely bother to applaud. I pack away swiftly, making sure to lock my case as people start to filter from the room. Snow doesn't leave. He lingers in the corner, haunting me like a painful memory that just drifted through the Veil.

I’m entirely unsure how to proceed. Do I stride over there and confront him? Do I demand that he gives me the coins back? What if he tells some tragic tale about how poorly his life has turned out? Would I forgive him if he told me that he took the coins thinking they were real money and got them stuck in one of the self-service machines in Tesco?

I need to talk to him. I need to crawl out of an emergency exit and hop a plane to somewhere he can’t find me. I need a drink. I need to catch my breath.

There's nowhere I can hide. I’m not important enough to have my own dressing room. I used to book shows where I was treated like I was somebody, but these days, it’s just, “stick your stuff over there, and make sure you’re done before Ed comes by to start up karaoke.” I'm lacking options, so I make my way towards the men’s room. I stare at myself in the mirror, mere seconds away from jabbing my finger at my reflection and calling myself a joke.

And then someone swings through the door.

I should’ve known. He was never above all this at Watford. It was a normal weekday morning occurrence to have Snow follow me into the toilets and stare at me as I adjusted my tie in the mirror. 

He's wearing sunglasses now. He wasn't wearing them before. He must've put them on mere seconds ago to try fool me, and the thought of it makes me snap. I lurch forward and corner him between the sinks and the wall. Even those dark shades can't hide the way his eyes widen.

" _You_ ,” I hiss. “Why are you stalking me?"

Snow shakes his head, fumbling for an excuse. “I'm not! I told you, I’m—”

“Do you expect me to believe your lies? That’s your name is Stefan Smoulder or—”

“Steven Smoke!” he protests, and I sneer. It feels satisfying and shameful. Like picking up a cigarette after years of being nicotine-free.

“Why are you here?"

“I live nearby! It’s just a coincidence. I fancied a drink after work and—"

"A coincidence that you're on the guest list for every private party in London?” I scoff. “I’m too old for your ridiculous games. Give me one good reason not to call security to escort you out immediately or—”

"You're magic!"

“Yes,” I say dryly. “I’m a stage magician, and it’s all dreadfully humiliating. Go ahead. Make fun of how far I've fallen.”

"No," he says, and he lifts his head to look at me. " _Real_ magic. That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?"

A thick lock of curls falls onto his forehead, and he brushes it back with a freckled hand. I find myself distracted by it, and Snow barges his way into my momentary silence. “I know what you're doing. I have proof! You’re not fooling anyone.”

I step closer, until there’s barely any space left between us. “What exactly are you accusing me of?"

“Where do I start?” He raises his eyebrows. A challenge. “I’ve got a whole list of stuff the Coven would love to hear about.”

My stomach drops as understanding washes over me. I laugh darkly. “It all makes sense now. The Coven had no use for their poor Chosen One, so they trained you up like a dog so you could sniff out petty crimes. Well, you can tell them that they’ve got it all wrong. There’s nothing going on here. So why don’t you run along and yap at someone else.”

“No one sent me here! You don’t know what you’re talking about. If you’d just let me—”

“Snow,” I say, holding up my hand sharply. "I'm terribly sorry that your life is so mundane that you had to track me down and continue an argument from twenty years ago, but I can’t do this again. I won’t."

“But—”

A man in a football shirt swings through the door, and looks between us. I shift back and gesture politely like some kind of crazed urinal concierge. He stares back at me with equal parts horror and disgust, and I turn, cape swishing behind me as I stride towards the door.

Snow follows me out. (Of course he does.) We stand outside the toilets, and he does that thing where he tries to say every word he’s ever heard and succeeds at saying nothing at all. I watch him bluster for a good ten seconds, before I speak up out of pity. Purely to put him out of his misery.

“What do you want from me?” I ask him. “What can I possibly do to get you to stop?”

“What if...” He looks up at me. He's breathing through his mouth, all flushed and pink. “Could we talk for a bit?”

My instincts scream _no,_ but I know Snow too well. If I send him away, he’ll come running back. If I ignore him, he’ll become more annoying. And if he reports me, then...well, who knows what will happen.

“Fine,” I say, and his mouth falls open. 

“Really? Do you—do you mean it?”

I nod and gesture towards a sticky-looking booth in the corner. “Take a seat, Snow. It appears we have some catching up to do.”

**SIMON**

I’m having a pint with Baz Pitch. We’re sitting beside each other in a curved booth, in a pub where he just finished performing. He called me a stalker in the toilets, and now he’s sipping wine next to me. _Willingly_. Fuck, this is mental. I've got no clue what to say.

I don't think either of us do. It's not like we were ever mates, is it? Baz said something about catching up, but so far, we've barely spoken at all. He asked me what I wanted to drink before he went to the bar, but now he’s back and all I can do is take large gulps to distract myself from the conversation that’s not even slightly happening.

Merlin, this is painful. I don't even know where to start.

“So…” I try, and he casts his sharp, grey glare on me. Am I sweating? I think I'm sweating. "I…"

"You can take that thing off now,” Baz says.

“Uh,” I say eloquently. “Take what-”

“The facial hair."

"Oh.” I pat my face. Kinda forgot I was wearing it, to be honest. “Right. Yeah.”

I shift sheepishly and peel the fake moustache from my face, wincing as it tugs at my skin. I drop it onto the table and it sits there between us, like a sad, brown caterpillar. Baz won't stop glaring at it.

"Did you really think that would fool me?" he asks.

I take off my glasses too, because it's dingy as fuck in here. I pick up a cardboard beer mat from the table and start twisting it between my fingers. "Well…you never noticed before so…"

"Before? How long have you been doing this?"

"Uh, couple-a times. You know how it is."

"I certainly do not. I've never woken up and thought, oh, where's that halfwit I roomed with fifteen years ago? Better go follow him around the supermarket."

"I never followed you around the supermarket!" I protest, but Baz doesn't take much notice.

"I thought they'd have provided you with a magickal disguise, at least. Instead of that cheap thing that doesn't even match your hair colour."

"It matches," I say defensively. The beer mat is in pieces now. I've been tearing it up without thinking. I bury my moustache under the shreds of it, because I don't want to look at it any longer. “And I told you, I'm not working for anyone. I just-" I lean in, my voice lowering. “I wanted to talk to you about the magic thing.”

Baz blinks at me for a second. Then he takes his wine glass between his long fingers and leans back. "793.8.”

“What?" I ask. 

"It's the Dewey Decimal number for books on the subject. Visit your local library and do some research, and maybe you'll be able to do card tricks too. Perhaps you could even start up a rival show. You're clearly not above stealing from me."

Baz shoots me a look that's so murderous that I actually feel a chill. I think about the coins in the Ziploc bag on my desk at home and I wince. Of course he fucking noticed. "I… That was...um…”

“You didn't mean to take them?” Baz fills in. “You never meant to follow me? It was pure happenstance that you wandered into one of my magic shows?”

"Yeah, actually! That's—"

Baz picks up his posh wine glass again. I watch him tip his head back to drain it, and his hair falls softly onto his shoulders. It’s a little bit shorter than it used to be, but not by much. I hate that he's still perfect. The nicest hair on the whole bloody planet.

I reach for my glass too. There's at least a third of my pint left, but I neck it, because I don't want Baz to think he can out drink me. He sits up straight when I'm done, and taps his fingers once on the table in a very final manner, like people always do when they're done with crap dates and awkward social occasions. Fuck, I should've taken my time, sipping it slower so he'd stay a while. He can't go yet. I won't let him.

If he says _right_ , then I'm done for.

"Right," Baz says, and I don't know why, but I panic _._

“I’m sorry!” I blurt out. “I didn't mean to take the coins and I can explain everything if you just stay for one more, so please don’t—”

If Baz notices my desperation, he doesn’t comment on it. He just looks at me, and that cool grey stare summons a feeling that’s bigger than my chest can handle. It's not like I missed _him_ exactly, but I missed... _something._ None of this makes much sense to me. But I know that I need him to stay.

“Don’t go yet,” I say helplessly, and Baz reaches around me to grab his empty glass.

“The only place I'm going is the bar,” he says. “It appears that I’m going to need a bottle.”

***

When Baz slides back into the booth again, he places another glass in front of me. I don't know why he keeps insisting on going himself. I don't think he trusts me to get the right wine.

"One Cherry Bakewell Spritz," he announces, wrinkling his nose like the snob he is. "Since apparently you have the refined tastes of a twenty-one year old hairdresser on hen-do."

"Don't listen to him," I coo at my glass, cupping my hands around it so it can't hear Baz's slander. "We're perfect for each other."

"Perfect for tooth decay," Baz mutters, but his words lack their spiky edge. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was almost enjoying mocking me for my cocktail choices.

The look I give is probably half-glare and half-nervous grin. My face can't work out what to do. He makes me feel like I'm wobbling on the edge of a cliff and I'm gonna fall any minute, and it’s fifty-fifty whether I’ll explode as I hit the ground or land somewhere decent and safe.

Safe is the wrong word, actually. I can't feel safe around someone like Baz. But if I force our entire history from my mind, it almost feels like we're two old mates catching up at the pub. (If those two mates grew up fighting and breaking each other’s noses and then spent years apart before one of them started following the other in disguise and…you know what? Forget it. It’s nothing like that.)

“So," I say, picking up where we left off before he went to the bar. "Tell me about the rabbit."

We’ve been at this since we sat down. Me, running through lists of evidence. Baz, denying all my solid proof and trying to write it off as perfectly Normal illusions. We'd be done in two minutes if Baz just answered my questions, but he keeps talking around them. I think he's trying to distract me.

“What about the rabbit?” he asks.

“What's its name? And how’s it always disappearing and popping up again if you’re not enchanting it?”

“I bribe him with vegetables," Baz says. "And his name has no relevance here.”

“Well, what about the snow?"

"What snow?"

"You know. At the birthday party.” He’s still looking at me blankly. “With the cake? And the kids?”

“Surely you weren’t invited to…” Baz stops and shakes his head. “Never mind. Don’t answer that."

"You're doing it again!” I say. “You keep dodging the question."

“Because it's moronic. The weather changes every two seconds in this country. I’d hardly call it an odd occurrence.”

“Since when does it snow in August? And what about those doves? I saw them turn into fireworks."

"I'm afraid you must be mistaken," Baz says, and I forgot how frustrating he is. I want to grab his shoulders and shake his secrets right out of him.

I take back everything I said about this almost seeming decent. Baz doesn't _do_ decent. I borrowed Gareth's Game Boy once in second year, and I know that it was Baz who corrupted my Pokémon save file. He's not exactly a trustworthy bloke.

“You’re lying," I say.

“No,” Baz says with an exasperated sigh. “I just have no clue what you're referring to. Do you think I keep a list of every cheap trick I’ve ever performed? Crowley, Snow. Do you think I have that much time on my hands?"

I freeze in surprise, my drink raised halfway to my mouth.

"What?" Baz asks, shifting a little self-consciously.

I feel like I'm at Alton Towers, plummeting up and down every rollercoaster in sight. Two seconds ago, I wanted to pour my sugary-sweet drink on Baz's posh trousers, and now, there's something oddly sentimental prickling in my chest.

"You...you said Crowley," I say, and now I'm the one feeling awkward. "Haven't heard anyone say that in years."

"People don’t say it at work?"

"Why would they? I work at a fucking fancy dress shop."

"A place that specialises in magickal disguises for Coven-approved missions?”

I laugh, sharp and bitter. "A place where people come and ask me to find them a _Sexy Traffic Cone_ or a _Zombie Bob the Builder_."

Baz looks absolutely horrified. "No," he whispers, shaking his head. "That can't be true."

"It is," I say. "Don't you think I'd pick something cooler if I was lying?"

"That’s…” Baz sits up straighter, a wrinkle creasing between his brow. “That's where you got the moustache."

I launch a cardboard beer mat at him, and it’s typical Baz Pitch that he catches it even after a bunch of drinks. I still hate him for that. He's so irritatingly sharp all the fucking time.

(And he's right, too. I've borrowed half our work inventory for my disguises.) (I nailed it so well at the old people's home that I barely managed to leave again.)

“Go on then," I say. "Let me have it. Tell me how pathetic it is that they thought I was the Chosen One and now I'm selling face paint."

"It's extremely pathetic," Baz agrees. "Perhaps the saddest thing I've ever heard. But I'm sitting here in a fucking cape, so—"

I laugh at that, and it takes me by surprise when Baz laughs too. I’m not sure I’ve actually seen him laugh before.

“Fuck, you should've said. If I'd have known about the dress code, I would've grabbed one from the shop.”

"You—" Baz starts, and then he laughs more. We can't speak. We sit there like two delirious mad men, getting looks from the young’uns on the nearest table.

"I was meant to do great things, you know," I say, when a silence settles. I'm not really sure why I say it. Maybe it's the alcohol, or the creeping suspicion that Baz might actually understand. “That’s what they told us, isn’t it? That we’d save the world and invent new spells that would change the whole universe and-”

"And kill each other along the way?" Baz adds.

“Yeah. That too,” I say darkly. “We were meant to make the history books. I never thought we'd end up being so...so _average_.”

“Speak for yourself,” Baz says. “I’m thriving in my field. Just last month, I made the list of the Top 100 Birthday Party Magicians in London.”

“Oh, I saw that!” I say, and Baz’s eyes narrow. “I mean, I might’ve seen that if I was Googling birthday party magicians in London, but that would be weird, so…”

“Have I mentioned how much you horrify me?"

"Well, at least you remember I exist," I mutter.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"No one in the World of Mages gives a shit about me anymore. They barely even remember my name.”

“You’re really not working for anyone? They didn’t find you anything to do?”

“There wasn’t a Magickal Job Centre I could pop into. And I couldn't exactly put _goblin chasing_ or _sword wielding_ on my CV, so..."

Baz gives me a long look, and it might be because of the empty bottle standing between us, but I think I see pity creasing between his brows.

He must know as well as I do that people just stopped caring about me. The whole magickal world turned on its head when the Humdrum was defeated, and no one wanted me when I had nothing left to give. They wanted to talk _about_ me, sure, to put me on display as a cautionary tale of magic gone wrong and poke at the broken fragments I left behind.

But they didn’t have a place for me anymore. No one did. I floated between two worlds like a ghost. I didn’t know what to do. It’s not as though there was some retirement village for washed-up Chosen Ones. No one handed me an information pamphlet called _So You’ve Destroyed and Saved the World…_ and tried to guide me through.

Penny tried really hard—to keep me connected, to keep me sane _,_ to drag me out of bed in the morning. And I tried too eventually. I had to.

But I couldn't ever shake the guilt that I’d taken so much magic from the world, and I had fuck all to give in return.

Penny does magic without me now. She barely even mentions it all. We try to do normal stuff when we meet up these days, like wandering around nice libraries or going to the cinema and drinking hot chocolate after while she criticises whatever film we just saw. She invites me round for dinner and I make the dessert. It's dreadfully mundane and I love it more than anything.

But I wonder, sometimes, if I’ve disappointed her too. Because I can’t be a hero or a Mage or even a ticking time-bomb.

I’m just that bloke who got left behind.

And I'm sure Baz knows that too.

I don’t know how he ended up here. He's always had everything he could ever want. Money, power, connections. He doesn't need to be here, ranting and drinking with me of all people. He’s better than this. Better than me.

At school, Baz was always one hundred percent committed - to being ruthless, to making my life a misery, to being the biggest drama queen, or the best at Greek, or scoring the most goals on the pitch. He was always so fucking passionate.

I think that's why it feels so wrong to see him like this. So unspectacular. So lackluster.

"How did you end up here, Baz?" I ask, but he shrugs it off, his expression completely unreadable.

"How did you end up with an empty glass?" he asks me.

He makes one of those posh _top me up_ gestures at the bloke behind the bar. They don’t even do table service here, but the guy comes strolling over. Is it because Baz works here sometimes? Or because he’s a powerful force to be reckoned with, who still expects the whole world to bow down before him. I hope he’s not getting me drunk so he’ll have an advantage when he finishes me off behind the bins. I’m too old to fight to the death, and I’m not sure if the Sword of Mages would even come if I tried to summon it. (I’m too chicken to try.) (I know I’d only end up disappointed.)

"You can't just keep avoiding my questions by plying me with drinks, you know."

Baz shrugs. "Why not? It's worked so far, hasn't it?"

The bar bloke plonks a glass of something brown in front of me, and it could be anything. Whiskey. Coke. Rum. I stare down at the table, at the two glasses between us filled with undecipherable liquid.

I wish I knew what we were drinking…

**BAZ**

I don't know what I'm drinking.

I’ve gone past selecting things with care and caution, opting instead for a classic barbarian wave of the hand that screams _more alcohol, please._

I'm not equipped to handle this. The most glorious man in the history of the universe is telling me he’s average and forgotten, and I have no means of providing comfort. It’s so difficult to look at him. I can’t stare into those perfect eyes and pretend that he wasn’t the most magickal part of the magickal world, even if he gave it all away.

What can I say that wouldn't reveal a lifetime of secrets? _I love magic. I loved you. I couldn't stand to spend my entire life rubbing shoulders with the people who tossed you out the second you stopped being useful._

I can't say anything honest, but I can make good use of my bar tab. I order drinks until my throat burns, and I'm drunk on far more than Simon Snow's proximity.

We're sitting closer than we were before, and I'm not sure when that happened. We’re leaning on each other, shoulder to shoulder, and the heat of his skin is overpowering. Why did we get so close? Because we have to keep our voices down? Because we don’t want anyone to overhear? Or because I gravitate towards him. I always have.

I watch Snow slam his glass down like an animal who’s never learned table manners, and I know that I'm staring. I can't drag my eyes away. The hair on his forearms. The mole on his chin. The way his t-shirt fits snugly over his chest. I've drank too much to pretend that I don't want to look at him. He's flushed and clumsy and messy, and he’s still the most gorgeous man that I’ve ever encountered.

If he leaned and closed the space between us, I wouldn't hesitate. I know that I still want him.

"They told us we'd be great," Snow slurs, and his weight presses harder against my arm.

“Ha!” I exclaim.

“Told us they’d have a place for us in the World of Mages.”

I sneer this time.

“Said I’m the Chosen One. More like chosen to be forgotten.”

“The Chosen Not One," I say, before I can think about how ridiculous it sounds.

“The Chosen Not One!” he repeats like it’s the smartest thing anyone’s ever said. "Fuck. That’s right.”

“It’s time we both accepted it,” I say. “Magic school was a bigger joke than your shop.”

“Fuck the lot of 'em!” Snow says, and then he stops like he thinks better of it. "Don't tell Penny I said that. She'd go on and on about the value of education and…" He narrows his eyes at me. "Wait, why aren't _you_ saying that? You're one of those _candlelight love-making sesh with your big fat thesaurus_ types."

"I'm...what?"

"A swot," he says. "You liked school. Always got all hot and bothered if I touched your favourite paperclips."

I shrug as enigmatically as I can manage. "Things change.”

“Maybe Watford was pointless," Snow says. “No, _I’m_ pointless. Should’ve just let the chimera eat me. You're probably the only one that remembers me. And even then, that's only because you hated that I liked windows or something.”

"People remember you," I say firmly. “You’re kind of impossible to forget.”

Snow's movement is sudden. He picks up his empty glass and pretends like he's drinking from it, though it's obvious to both of us there's not more than a drop in there.

I don't know why I said that, but I can't regret it having seen his reaction. He's pinker than he was before, and I think he's debating whether to protest. I wonder if he's as wired as I am. If his defences are weakened too.

“Can I ask you one thing?” I say. It's a struggle to get the words out. All I can focus on is the feeling of his shoulder where it’s touching mine.

“Yeah?”

“If I were to assume that you’re telling me the truth about all this...”

“Which I am.”

“So, let's say that you are, then...then why?”

He looks momentarily confused. We’re so close that I can count the freckles on his neck. “Because I don’t have any reason to lie to you?”

“No,” I say. “Why are you doing this? Why are you following me?”

“I…” He makes a baffled noise. “I...I dunno really.”

“You don’t know?” I repeat.

“No, I mean—I do know, but I dunno where to start and—"

"I'm in no rush," I say, as sincerely as I can manage. "Take your time."

I watch him search for the words. It’s a struggle to be patient, but I can't push him to force them out. "Do you remember the Crucible?”

Our first meeting. The first time he charged into my world. “How could I forget?”

“So, when I saw you again it sorta felt like that? It really was an accident. I was outside, and suddenly it just felt like—God, this sounds mental—but it was like I was being dragged inside? I thought you must be doing something to make people pay attention, because...it felt like I had no choice. Like I was meant to find you."

I suck in a breath. Does Snow even know what he’s saying? I’ve never loved anyone the way I once loved him, and now he’s sitting beside me, telling me he was meant to find me. I hold his gaze. He keeps his eyes locked on me.

“Why?” I dare to ask. "Why on earth would you be meant to—”

“I think…” He’s so close that I can feel his breath on my cheek. “Baz, I think it was magic.”

“My magic?” I ask, and he nods.

“Yeah. And...and mine.”

“I thought—” I frown, puzzled. “They say you gave it all away.”

“Thought I did,” says Simon. “But stuff’s been happening lately. Accidents. Stuff I can't explain. And I thought that if I worked out what you’re doing, then—”

“Then you’d work out what was happening to _you?_ ” I ask, and Snow nods.

I'm suddenly aware of how crowded the room is. I'm so warm, and Snow's so close, and it feels like the walls are closing in. We shouldn't be having this conversation here. Or possibly at all. It’s impossible. What he’s describing is—

"Baz?" Snow says.

"Yes?"

“Do you wanna, uh...” Snow’s gazing at me, flushing. “Do you wanna maybe go...somewhere else?”

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. There’s a fire, somewhere low in my stomach. Snow wants to leave. With _me_. I don’t even have time to consider my response.

“Where?” I rasp. And then, “yes,” before he can answer.

“There’s a takeaway round the corner. I’m starving. I’d kill for some chips.”

Chips. _Chips._

Simon Snow might still have magic. He might’ve been drawn, somehow, towards _mine_. He’s been following me for fuck knows how long, trying to solve this mystery.

And now he’s thinking about food.

How absolutely Simon.

I’m far gone enough that I agree. I settle the tab with my credit card without even looking at it. I let Snow lead me through the pub and out to the dark streets, to a takeaway that reeks of oil and disappointment. We get an odd look from the man behind the counter. (I _am_ still dressed in my magician's get-up, I suppose.) We sit on uncomfortable plastic chairs under the bright lights with my mountain of magic gear stacked behind us. Snow places a polystyrene carton heaped with chips on the table between us and inhales them, telling me to help myself through a mouthful of hot potato.

The alcohol is a terrible influence, because they smell too good to resist. I pop one into my mouth, and it's greasy. Drowned in salt and vinegar. Like Snow himself, it's equal parts dreadful and delightful. I eat five more in the time that it takes him to cram his mouth with fifty.

I follow him outside afterwards. We linger on the street corner, and I study every detail of Snow's face—handsome and pale in the shadows and the moonlight. I count every freckle I can see, and every line around his eyes, like it’s the last time I’ll see him.

Maybe it is. It feels like it should be. This is the part where we go our separate ways and tell ourselves this was all some fever dream when we wake up in the morning. It was always inevitable. It’s not like we can start a new life together, drinking on street corners and bitching about school, and unpicking whatever mystery Snow’s landed himself in the middle of this time. This whole evening has been leading to goodbye.

But now it’s finally arrived, I can't say it. I don't want to.

"So," I say, and he looks at me so expectantly. I speak five languages, but every word I know has slipped away. "This has been…"

"Weird as fuck?" Simon fills in.

I smile. I can't help myself. It’s entirely out of my control. "Yes," I agree. "Exactly that."

"I…" Snow starts, and he's working himself up to something. He looks so sincere that I’m hanging onto every mumble. "Baz, I—I want—"

I hold my breath. If he says _more chips,_ I'll throw myself (or him) into oncoming traffic.

“I don’t want to go home yet,” he blurts out. "I just don't!"

I draw in a breath. I want to tell him that the feeling is mutual. That I’ve always wanted more than my fair share when it comes to Simon.

"We've already drunk too much,” I say instead, checking my watch. “And last orders are fast approaching."

"Fuck last orders,” he growls. “I don't want a drink. I want more time. More...more of _this._ "

He gestures between us, and I don’t know how to respond. _More what_? I want to demand. More arguments about magic tricks. More long silences, where we’re not sure how to speak. More sitting too close, exchanging glances that feel like they mean something. More secrets we shouldn't share.

Or more knowledge. My address, my credit card details, every incident of my wrongdoing detailed out. I still don’t know if I can trust him. We were enemies for so long. If this is a trap, then I'm walking straight into it.

But I'm still the kind of fool that'd risk it all for him. There's no way I can walk away now.

“My place?" I say, and he nods. 

My skin is tingling with electricity. It's far too much to handle.

For once in my life, there's a taxi waiting at the rank. I lug my things into the boot and shuffle across the backseat, waiting for him to join me. He always did have a thing for trailing after me. But I never thought I'd find myself giving him permission.

It’s a terrible idea, but I’ve always been greedy when it comes to him.

And Crowley...I want more of this too.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, and thanks so much for your patience if you're coming back to read this. I wasn't expecting it to take so long, but I really hope someone out there enjoys it!
> 
> Once again, my eternal gratitude to [NineMagicks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/pseuds/NineMagicks) for the brilliant ideas, kind encouragement and amazing goose-related artwork!
> 
> And my endless thanks to [waterwings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterwings/pseuds/waterwings) for beta reading and for making my fics and my life so much better!

**BAZ**

There’s always something odd about bringing someone home at night. About that moment when you switch on the lights and expose your whole world to a stranger. (Or not a stranger in this case.) (Though he _is_ strange. No one can dispute that.) It forces me to see my living space the way someone else might—spacious and clean. Stylish, and yet lacking any sense of personality. I left my mug out on the coffee table this morning, and I mentally chide myself for not shifting it to the dishwasher. And then I want to laugh.

Because why the fuck am I fretting about mugs when Simon Snow is in my flat?

I'm thankful we didn't go to wherever Snow resides these days. I don't think I could've handled that. Having shared a room with him once, I'm convinced that there'd be underpants and empty crisp packets strewn across the floor, but that's not the reason I'm against it. Knowing how he lived, after all these years, would've felt too personal.

But I'm not sure having him here is much better. Snow's standing in the doorway to my living room. His socks are unmatched—one striped, and one cheerfully festive—and he looks completely out of his depth. I watch his eyes flicker around, like he's taking everything in, and I hope he's not scoping out the most expensive items. At this point, I'm so weak that I'd probably let him burgle me. I'd grab the other side of my flat screen TV and help him carry it out of the door.

Perhaps I’ll check his pockets before he leaves. (It makes something painful stir inside me to imagine him going.)

Maybe I never should've invited him at all. (He can't leave. He just got here.)

It was easier to talk before. In the pub there were noises and distractions, and we found a small haven together amongst the chaos. But here, it's sobering and silent. I don’t even know where to start.

He’s looking at me expectantly, hungry for something other than chips, and I’m not sure what he wants, but it almost seems like—

I take a breath, shaking the thought away before it has time to fully form. I’ve drank too much for this.

"Would you like some water?" I ask. "Or...something else?"

"Sure?"

"Which one?"

He shrugs, and I'm too impatient to try to interpret what that means. Water will suffice, I decide, as I stride towards the doorway. He's still blocking it, all broad hips and shoulders that I'd have to brush past to dodge around. Any other person would flinch or shift on instinct, but not Snow. He lets me get too close. 

“May I pass?” I ask.

He jumps back, clearing his throat. He's flushed all the way down to his neck. "Sorry," he says. "Uh, where's your loo?"

I gesture down the hall and move towards the kitchen, pulling off my cape as I go. I remove layer after ridiculous layer, until I finally look like a passable excuse for a human. I’m lacking any place to put them, so I stuff them in my dried goods cupboard. (It seems logical.) (Maybe I am drunk.)

My shirt is white and plain and it pains me to think of all the nicer ones hanging in my wardrobe, but I know it’d be too much to go and change. I pull open my top button anyway, raking my hand through my hair.

I can't remember the last time I felt so nervous.

He’s sitting on my couch when I return, lounged back like he belongs there. _Simon Snow,_ relaxed on my couch. I'm not sure I'll ever get used to this.

"Cheers," he says, as I place the water down on the table. "You've got a cracking view, by the way."

I follow his gaze to the sliding glass doors that lead to my balcony. Our reflections glint back at us, dulling the full majesty of London twinkling below. If this was a date, I'd lead him out there. I'd touch the back of his shoulder and point out landmarks and constellations.

"It's decent," I agree.

"It's _wicked_. I'd kill for something like that. My place is in a basement, so I barely even have a window. It's the worst room in the house, but I've got my own space at least.”

"Tragic." I try to sound uninterested, but something aches in my chest. I don't need to hear this. I don't need tidbits about his life that endear him to me more.

"Yeah, well." Snow shrugs. "Are you gonna sit down? You're making me feel weird."

" _I'm_ making _you_ feel weird? When you've been chasing me around for months?"

"I thought we'd moved past that?"

"Yes. Of course. I'm completely at peace with the fact that you _stalked_ me."

Snow has the nerve to roll his eyes, as though I’m the one in the wrong. He wallops my couch with such excessive force that I'm surprised he doesn't crack the leather. “Sit.”

I perch on the edge, and I miss our pub booth proximity. The middle sofa cushion separates us and it feels like we're galaxies apart.

"D'you ever…” Snow starts, then he looks down at his jeans. “D'you ever think about stuff that happened at Watford?”

I arch an eyebrow. "Like what?"

"Fights. Goats.” He dares to look at me. “Dragons.”

"Dragons?” I repeat.

“Yeah. Like...in eighth year? When we..."

“I told you to forget that. It was a fluke. An accident. It didn't mean anything.”

"That's the thing." Snow shuffles to the no-man's-land between us. He shifts sideways, so he’s facing me, and it all feels so desperately, achingly familiar. "I don't think it was."

A memory prickles like static beneath my skin. A truce so brief that I’m almost shocked that he remembers it. He’d helped me (or I’d helped him, because of course, it was the Simon Snow show) send a dragon home and then—then we saw stars together. No, we _made_ them.

I’d never felt such power before. I never have since. He gave his magic to me so freely, and the next morning, I’d acted as though it didn’t mean anything. (It didn't matter if he hated me. We were always going to end in flames.) I was too cowardly to do anything but push him away. (I wanted to protect him. We couldn't let the Mage find out.)

I almost asked him to spend Christmas break with me. I used to wonder sometimes, before I banished myself from thinking of him, what might have happened if I did. I always expected we'd have a grand goodbye. Blood and a battlefield. The dramatic climax the World of Mages had been pushing for since we were children. But the reality was nothing so spectacular. We argued in our room. I left and he never came back.

He disappeared from my life, but the feeling of his magic lingered. You can put out a fire, but you can't forget the way it burned you. The memory stays with you long after the scorch marks fade.

"Do you think..." I dare to ask. "Could you do it again?”

He shakes his head. "Don't think so. I don't go off anymore. Doesn't feel like I've got much to share. But if you cast something, then maybe... Uh, before—at your shows—it kinda seemed like..." He takes a breath and licks his lips. "Can I try something?"

I nod and he takes my hand and I'm a firework waiting to explode. I'm a mess of pyrotechnics, and he's an open flame. I feel sure that I know what he's asking. I reach for my wand, my eyes sliding to the offending mug on my coffee table, and a trick that I often use in my performances springs to mind.

 **" _Now you see me, now you don't!"_** I cast, and the mug vanishes with a soft pop.

"Again," Snow says greedily. “Something else.”

"If this is an elaborate method of stealing my magic...”

"It's not." Snow laughs. “I swear."

He takes my other hand, and my pulse accelerates. This feels so fucking dangerous, but it's strange how much I trust him. My eyes settle on some wilting flowers leftover from a show. They're sitting in a vase that Daphne gave me on my glass coffee table.

“ _ **April showers!”**_ my voice booms.

I’m not surprised when the flowers brighten. (Brown turns to green. Death turns to life.) I’ve been casting this spell since Watford, refreshing the offering at my mother’s grave so she never goes without. But this…this feels different.

It doesn’t hit me all at once the way it did before. I’m not bulldozed by a burst of breathtaking magic. This time it’s slow—an ember kindling at the end of a cigarette, turning paper to ash and smoke. It doesn't feel like holding all of the power in the universe in my hands, but it does feel warm and familiar, like waking up in our room at Watford and seeing sunlight streaming over Snow's face. It feels like a stack of warm blankets. It feels like _Simon_ , and not just because he's gripping both my hands tight.

The feeling creeps right down to my fingertips as the flowers bloom, inching towards us like we're the sun. New stems sprout, and I know that we're not just extending life. We're _creating_ it. Soon, they grow so large that the vase topples under their weight. It crashes onto my table, and the porcelain cracks.

“Shit,” Snow says. "Sorry." His grip loosens on my hands as water pools onto the surface. Tiny clovers expand into lily pads, creeping along the glass.

“Don't stop,” I command, squeezing his hands so the spell doesn’t break. It smells as fresh as spring. My entire flat will end up rivalling Kew Gardens if we carry on at this rate.

“Feels different,” he says, and he sounds almost breathless. “To last time. I’m not giving you extra magic. You’re—”

The realisation feels electric. I’m not just taking this time. I’m giving something back.

"This isn’t possible,” I say.

"I'm drunk off my arse on your sofa," Snow says, laughing. "Anything is possible."

He’s sweating now. His hands are clammy, and that should probably repulse me, but he's sexier somehow. He squeezes my hands tighter. It’s already too much, and we've barely even begun.

“I wanna see the stars again,” he murmurs. "Can we—"

I nod and say the words that take us there. Stars surround us, and perhaps it’s more planetarium than supernova this time, but that doesn't matter. It's dazzling. We hold each other's hands, and it feels like Snow is the only anchor preventing me from drifting off and getting lost in the universe. He catches my eye and grins, starlight flickering across his cheeks, and he's so beautiful. I'm drifting through the fucking solar system, and he's still the most wondrous thing that ever existed.

I hold his gaze and his hands, knowing that I can't let him go.

This time, we don’t pull back.

“Fuck,” I say, shuddering as electricity pulses through my body. “This feels-”

“Yeah,” he breathes.

“Have you done this with anyone else?”

“No. Have you?”

I shake my head. "I wouldn't even know how.”

“ _Baz_ ,” Simon says, and then he laughs. “It was gone. It was all fucking gone. And then you… _you..._ ”

The stars flicker and fade when he pulls his hands from mine, and I’m frowning and then I’m not, because his fingers find my cheeks and then…then he kisses me.

I'm not expecting it. Thinking about it, perhaps—I’ve been passively thinking about it for the last twenty years—but expecting it? Never.

He tastes like magic. Like smoke and fire and warmth. He shifts to his knees, leaning into me, and I drag him closer. He gives me everything and all I can do is take.

"Baz," Simon murmurs, his breath hot against my lips. "You're _magic._ "

I laugh against his mouth. "We met at _magic school._ I'm not sure what you were expecting."

"There's magic," he says, gazing at me, "and there's _magic_. And you're just so fucking…"

He sighs in this soft, breathy way that makes me think it's a compliment. I smile—I can't stop smiling tonight—and he leans back. He looks strangely hesitant.

"I'm too hot," he says, and I raise an eyebrow. "No, I mean like—" He takes my hand and presses it to his forehead. "Actually overheating."

"If you're asking for permission to remove your shirt, then I assure you there'll be no complaints."

He hesitates again and then drags it off. My gaze trails over him. My throat goes dry. He’s got even more freckles than I remember. Maybe, like our flowers, they just never stopped blooming.

"This is weird," he says, giggling. "So fucking weird."

"Do you want to stop?" I ask.

"No." He reaches for me again. "Not this time.”

I slide down onto my back and let him press me in to the sofa. The stars might have vanished, but I can still feel his magic fizzing in my veins. His breath tastes like vinegar. His mouth tastes like sin. I push my hips against his and _fuck,_ I could do this forever. I could get so fucking used to this.

I melt against him, smoothing my hands over his back. His skin is hot and rough and...bumpy? _Moving?_ An ear-splitting pop makes me pull my mouth back. When I open my eyes, red leathery wings cast a shadow on my face. They’re emerging from Snow's back. He's a demon. A literal handsome devil. He’s-

"What the fuck are those?" I splutter in alarm.

"Oh," Snow grimaces, looking faintly embarrassed. "I didn't mention 'em?"

"No, you did not."

"I haven't seen 'em for years. They normally stay put, but I guess the magic got them all excited or something?"

"What are they?" I gawk at him. "Explain yourself."

"Uh…" He drags his hands through his messy curls. "It's a bit of a long story."

"What are you?" A red and pointed tail prods at my knee. "Are you the devil?"

"Part-dragon, actually. I mean...technically."

" _Dragon?_ "

"I'm Welsh too. Or at least part-Welsh. But…'spose that's a long story too. Can we catch up on this later?"

A Welsh dragon. A laugh escapes my mouth, and before I know it I'm doubled over. I can't stop.

He has the gall to look offended. "Is it _that_ funny?"

It’s a moment before I can even answer. "Simon Snow, you're a fucking disaster. You're the strangest being who ever existed."

He glares at me. "Well, you're the one kissing me. What does that make you?"

“Hopeless," I say, reaching for him again. "Depraved." I kiss his neck. "Irresistible."

"It was the top hat," he murmurs by my ear. "Really got me going."

"Finally. It all makes sense now."

The wings are real. Or, at least they appear to be. I push my hands along the bumpy crook where they jut out from his skin and he groans.

“Sorry,” he says, flushing. “This is embarrassing. I don't think anyone's ever…I mean, they're usually hidden, so…"

I touch him again just to make him arch towards me. I kiss him greedily, like I've spent forever living for this day. Something sparks between us. The room glows with a soft warm light. It’s like golden hour at midnight. Like our magic’s flowing freely when we’re not even trying.

“What the fuck?” Snow asks. “What's going on?”

“No clue. But I’ll throw you off my balcony if you stop kissing me again.”

Snow mouths at my neck. There’s a loud crash from my hallway.

“What was that?” he asks.

“I don’t care.”

“Is someone breaking in?”

“I don’t _care._ "

My fingers slide through his curls.

He pushes magic into me and the world crashes down around us.

He pushes into me, until all I can see is light.

The night fades away like a dream. And just like last time, he scorches me clean.

**SIMON**

I’m lying on Baz’s couch.

Or, wait, maybe that’s not entirely accurate.

I’m lying on _Baz_. He’s got an arm around me, and the couch is nowhere near big enough for both of us, but it's weirdly comforting. Waking up with him again after so many years apart fills a hole in my chest that I never even knew existed.

My wings have retracted again. Doctor Wellbelove did some powerful magic on them years ago, and I was almost as surprised as Baz when they popped out. I wish they were still around now, to be honest. They’d do a great job of blocking out the early morning sunlight glaring through the window and beaming directly into my eyes.

I know I should move. I’m well uncomfortable. I feel like I haven’t had a drink for a thousand years, and I need to piss. But the thought of ruining this brief, peaceful moment makes my stomach turn. (Or maybe that’s the hangover.) (Fuck, we drank a lot.)

It’s just nice that Baz is sleeping. His breath is slow and steady. I lie still just listening to it, craning my neck at an even more awkward angle so I can muse on the fact that he even pouts when he sleeps. That shouldn’t be cute, but it is.

I think Baz is _cute._ And we...

I flush as the memory floods back. Hot breath. Warm skin. His magic seeping in.

I always thought that following Baz would bring me answers, but now I have more questions than when I started. But I think that this is progress in a different sort of way. My body is thrumming. I don’t know where we go from here, but I know I want to do something. There’s no way I’m walking out of here and pretending nothing's changed.

“Will you stop fidgeting?” Baz grumbles and I jump. “It’s bad enough that you’re using me as a pillow. The least you could do is lay still.”

“Oh," I say, and a surprised laugh escapes me. "Sorry, I didn’t realise you were awake.”

“How could I possibly sleep when you’re flailing your limbs in every direction?” Baz huffs.

I wish he’d stayed asleep for longer. He looks like he needs the rest, like he could do with a week’s worth of sleep. But then, he always looked exhausted, even first thing in the morning. Maybe that’s just his thing. He pulls it off well at least.

“Uh, sorry,” I say again. I push myself up, because I really do need the loo. He looks surprised when I move. Disappointed, almost, or is that just wishful thinking?

The whole world lurches when I'm on my feet, and I'm not sure if it's a drink hangover or a magic hangover, but I know I feel groggy as fuck. I head towards the hallway, then turn back around. “I’ll be back in a sec,” I announce.

There’s a hundred (or, okay, four) identical white doors, and I can't remember which one I went through last night. I barge into Baz's bedroom by accident and the intimacy of it makes me blush. It’s big and neat like a fancy hotel room with the comfiest looking bed I’ve ever seen. I probably wouldn’t have this crick in my neck if we’d just gone in here yesterday. (Will we go in there next time?) (Will there _be_ a next time?) (Should I be freaking out that I possibly maybe definitely want there to be one?)

I find the right door on the second try, and I'm not sure I appreciated how posh it was before. It smells like those candles that are named _fresh linen_ or _cake icing_ or _dandelion puffs_. I’m a mess when I glance in the mirror. Flushed and tired and messy.

Baz is waiting in the hallway when I open the door. His feet are bare and he’s shirtless, and I’ve never seen him look so vulnerable around me.

“Were you snooping in my bedroom?” he asks, gesturing towards the door that I accidentally left ajar.

“No.” I shake my head. “Just got lost. Too many doors.”

He narrows his eyes like he doesn’t believe me, and I’m not sure I’d believe me either, but it still pisses me off to hear it. After everything, I thought...I don't know. I thought that he might trust me more. That things had changed between us.

We stare at each other. A brief silence passes.

“It appears,” Baz says, “that we upturned my plants.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re in complete disarray.”

I follow him to a small alcove by the front door. There’s roots and leaves everywhere, mixed in with soil and slabs of shattered terracotta. It’s like they grew too big for their pots and just burst out. Like they fell and just kept on growing.

“Shit. We did this?”

"I suspect so,” Baz says. “They’re fake. Or at least, they were before last night.”

My mouth falls open. My magic is a shadow of what it used to be. I’ve swapped an entire ocean for a tiny, narrow stream. I can't do anything I want to—just crappy, unexpected stuff like a salt shaker projecting itself across the room when I sneeze. But together...we did all this. We saw galaxies. We made Baz’s flat into a bloody B&Q garden centre.

"Thankfully, my rabbit's as happy as he’s ever been. I think we multiplied his half-eaten carrots.”

"Your rabbit's here?" I ask excitedly. "Can I go see him?"

"No. He's busy."

"Doing what?"

"I don't know. Rabbit things. Washing his fur. Selling shares on the bunny stock market.”

“You don’t want me to meet him. Because you’re scared he’ll like me better than you. No!” I point at Baz’s face. “Because he’s not real! He’s a robot!”

“Crowley,” Baz hisses, covering his ears. “Inside voice please. My head’s killing.”

“Can’t keep up, eh?” I grin, though I’m not exactly feeling peachy myself. “Oh, fuck,” I exclaim, and Baz flinches again. "You got the bill, didn't you? How much do I owe you?”

“It doesn't matter.”

"No, honestly," I say, reaching for my wallet. Then I realise I'm standing in front of Baz in nothing but my boxers and my cheeks flame. "Uh…"

Baz glances down, and then promptly averts his eyes. "They're probably still on my floor."

"Right. Yeah. Like the good old days, eh? Uh, because we were roommates. Not because this has happened before. We'd probably remember that, wouldn’t we?”

"I know what you meant," Baz snips. His arms are crossed tight in front of his chest. I think he's calculating what to say before he opens his mouth. I can feel how much he's thinking. "I'm going to take a shower," he says finally. “You can see yourself back to the living room to dress, I presume?”

I nod and he turns away. "Uh, wait! Baz?"

He turns back to me expectantly. "Yes?"

"Can we..." There's so much I want to say, but the awful taste in my mouth engulfs my words. My throat is so dry it's constricting. "Can I grab a drink? And maybe breakfast?"

Baz pauses so long that I'm sure he'll say no. “Alright,” he says finally. “But don’t break anything. Or make a mess. And please, for the love of Chomsky, put some trousers on first."

His eyes flick down again and I flush. I've probably had these boxers for ten years. If I'd known then...

No. There's no way I could've known. It's the last thing I would've ever predicted.

"Uh, yeah," I say. "Thanks."

Baz's kitchen is like one of those IKEA showrooms. It's fancy and it's shiny, but there's fuck all inside of it. I’m almost scared to touch anything. I down a pint of water, then rummage around, and what I find is more soul-destroying than anything I ever imagined. He's got no bread. No bacon or eggs. No…no _butter._ I find a cape stuffed in a cupboard, and I almost lose it. (A cape but no butter? What kind of a life is Baz leading?)

In the end, the best I can muster up is a bowl of Muesli. It’s probably the most depressing thing I've ever eaten, and I’m not entirely convinced it’s not rabbit food, but it’s passable. I poke around a bit more when I’m done eating, and after a few tries I even manage to get Baz's fancy coffee machine to work. (I mop up the water I spill before he comes back.) (I didn't _break_ it. Must be fine, right?)

Baz enters the room like a whisper. I look up and he's standing there, all soft and unassuming. It's nothing like the dramatic entrance that once dragged me to my feet. I suppose that's just another thing that's changed. He's dressed like all of yesterday's flowers have bloomed on his shirt. It looks nice. He's wearing—

"Jeans!" I say.

Baz glances at my legs tucked under his table. "Yes. You found them. Well done."

"No, I mean— _you're_ wearing them."

"What were you expecting? Full magician's attire?"

I think I was expecting his Watford uniform. Baz stepping out from the shower with his hair slicked back. But it falls loosely instead, all fresh and pretty. (And dry. Bet he spelled it.)

This whole thing feels weird. New and nostalgic all at once. Baz stands in front of me, as magnificent and untouchable as an illusion, and I want to break through. I want to reach out and grab hold of what I glimpsed at last night. The real Baz that's hiding underneath.

“I made coffee,” I say.

Baz raises an eyebrow in surprise. He pours himself a cup and sits down opposite me, scrutinising his drink like I might’ve poisoned it. This feels like the painfully awkward aftermath of some one night stand. (I’m not quite sure that it’s not.)

There's a million things that have never even occurred to me before racing through my mind. A mess of feelings trying to claw their way out of my cloudy, hungover brain. Words that I can't say, because they'd be too truthful, and Baz and I have never been honest with each other. Words have always been ammunition to us. If I said anything genuine, Baz would throw it back at me, sharp as a knife. He'd always make sure to hit me where it hurt.

But I'm not sure that he'd do that now. Not after last night. I told him things I haven't even told Penny. I let him feel my magic. I kissed him, and he kissed me back. I'd do it again, if he let me.

"Thank you for the coffee," Baz says. "It's an absolute necessity. I haven't drank that much in years."

"Me either. You're a bad influence, you know."

Baz gives a wry smile. "Who am I if not the villain of your story?"

"Oh yeah. You’re the baddest bloke on the birthday party circuit."

"I _could_ be. You certainly spent your childhood telling everyone how evil I was."

I think back to Baz's words in the pub yesterday. "Things change."

 _I think you changed me,_ I want to say. _You put my stagnant life into motion. You gave me something to chase. You gave me magic_ — _your magic_ — _or maybe it was mine once. Maybe you’ve been looking after it this whole time._

But I’m crap at this stuff, so my words come out weak and clumsy. “Last night was...it was cool, wasn’t it?”

Baz holds my gaze. “It was certainly something.”

His hand is resting on the table, and I place mine next to it. Just close enough that our index fingers touch.

“We should do it again,” I say. "Soon." I lean forward in my chair. I dare to make the leap from adjacent fingers to hand holding. "I could even bring Penny next time.”

Baz pulls back so fast that you’d think I’d burned him. Maybe I did. Maybe I’m a liability, brimming with magickal aftershocks. I pretend it doesn't sting as he folds his hands in his lap, and leaves my hand empty on the table.

"Bunce?" he says, frowning.

“Yeah. I'm sure she'll have a million questions about everything. She'll be thrilled to hear about the magic!”

“Right.” Baz eyes glaze over with something cool. “The magic.”

He stands suddenly and whisks away my empty bowl. I watch him rinse it in the sink. He's so tall he has to stoop a bit. The muscles in his back look tense.

"It's fine if you don't want to, but Penny's cool, y'know. She'd never tell anyone. And I bet she'd love to see you again!"

Baz slams the dishwasher door with a ferocity that makes me jump. I don’t know what I've done. It’s like his mood shifted in seconds.

My chair scrapes on the floor as I stand and follow him across the kitchen. I forgot to put my socks on earlier. The tiles feel cold under my feet. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” Baz says. He picks up a glass and starts drying it, but I’m not sure it was even wet to begin with. “Why would you have?”

“I don’t know, You just seem...off all of a sudden.”

“I’m fine. Busy. I have to get ready for work soon.”

“Why? Isn't your show later this evening?”

Baz laughs, but there's no warmth to it. It feels colder than what I deserve. "Right. My apologies. I forgot you have every detail of my schedule memorised.”

My cheeks burn with something hot and shameful. Does Baz have to keep bringing that up? You stalk a bloke once and he never lets it go.

"I explained that," I say, feeling strangely defensive. "And at least I'll admit to stuff! I slept in your arms—”

“Fitfully,” Baz interjects.

“And you still won’t tell me anything!"

"What else do you want from me? A three hundred page document on my act so you can try to steal that along with everything else?”

A chill runs through me. When I speak, my voice is soft and small. “Do you think I stole your magic?”

“No. _No._ I I didn’t mean that. I just…” Baz sighs and presses his fingers to his temples. “I have a headache. And I’m tired and I’m thirsty, and I apologise for not being in the mood to drag out a whiteboard and hypothesise theories about how to reinstate you as the Chosen One with Penelope Bunce, but you’ll have to take care of that yourself.”

Any other day, and I might not have snapped. In a world where my stomach wasn’t lurching and my head wasn’t throbbing and Baz wasn’t making me feel mortified for trying to be the tiniest amount of vulnerable, this would probably be okay. But his words hit me where it hurts. Ruthless and right through the heart.

“Do you think that’s what I want?” I ask.

“Isn’t that why you’ve been following me? So you can solve this mystery and be reinstated as the hero of the magickal world.”

My hands clench into fists. "Do you really think that’s why I’m here? That this was all part of my master plan?”

"You've always gone to great lengths to get what you want, Snow. Why should I assume that this is any different?"

His words sting. Ammunition in a loaded gun. My breath comes faster. My vision blurs, and for a second, I think maybe I'm going off, and then I realise that I'm just angry in a way that I haven't been in years. I’m trembling and sinking and drowning in all the things I want to say to make this right. I’m collapsing under the feeling of history repeating itself, and I don’t know how to stand under the weight of it.

Baz is shutting me out again. He’s acting as though it means nothing.

( _Did_ it mean nothing?)

(Have I got this all wrong?)

I shouldn’t have expected anything else. Maybe this is just what things are like for us. Baz and I collide and we blow up and sometimes it's brilliant, blinding fireworks, but it mostly just a wildfire, scorching everything in its path.

I've seen enough destruction to last a lifetime. I don’t have the energy to stick around and watch anything else go up in fucking flames.

I storm into Baz’s living room. It’s hard to look angry when you’re pulling on odd socks, but glaring's one of the few things I'm good at. It doesn’t take long to gather my things. I didn't have much with me in the first place. I've got my keys and my jacket and it feels like something’s missing. But you can’t leave something behind when it was never even yours to begin with.

I slam the door on my way out, so hard that the door frame shakes.

I look back over my shoulder as I jam the button to call the lift, wondering if Baz will follow me out.

(He doesn’t.)

**BAZ**

When the door slams shut, there’s nothing but silence. Nothing but shattered plant pots and regrets. I couldn't stop him from leaving. I know that I should have tried.

I may have been too proud to stop him, but I’m still pathetic enough to watch him walk away. I look down from my balcony as he exits my building, frowning at the sun for daring to shine. I'm only three floors above him, but it feels like we're oceans apart.

I'd be easy to call out to him. To tug at the golden thread of the soft, wonderful peace that we found last night and pull him back to me.

But history has a way of repeating itself. And when Simon turns and leaves as though he was never here at all, I let him go.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am absolutely repeating myself but this fic would not exist without all [NineMagicks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/pseuds/NineMagicks)'s brilliant ideas and all [waterwings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterwings/pseuds/waterwings)'s help and support so thank you both so much! <3
> 
> Also a huge thank you to anyone who's given this a read and encouraged me along the way - your kind words mean so much to me!

**BAZ**

It's difficult to return to mundanity after something spectacular happens. It's hard to wake up in an empty flat as though nothing happened at all.

I suppose I should be quite accustomed with mundanity. After all, it is what I know best these days. Tired tricks at birthday parties where I observe excitement without ever being a part of it. Drizzly grey days that blur into one. The constant reminder that there are other people out there, sharing joy and making meaningful connections, when the only people who’d turn up to celebrate my birth are almost entirely my blood relations.

I tap my fingers against the steering wheel of my black Audi, waiting for the traffic lights to turn green. Perhaps I shouldn’t have accepted today's booking. I’m hardly in the mood for trying to capture the attention of children who are more interested in a game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey. I don’t normally accept last minute parties, because people who are that unorganised are almost always trouble, but something about this one seemed promising. Maybe it was the fact that the email had promised _minimal guests_. Ideally, there’d be none at all. (I really should’ve taken up a career that required solitude and nothing else. Some days, I fucking hate people.)

It’s not like I was ever thrilled at the prospect of dragging myself to work, but lately it feels particularly unappealing. I could tell myself it’s summer drawing to an end, but I’ve never been fond of the sun. I could explain it away as a mental blip, or reason that I’m probably nearing a mid-life crisis (I have spelled an excessive number of grey hairs black lately), but the truth is far more pathetic.

Simon Snow appeared in my life again, and I’m so fucking skilled at disappearing acts that I made him vanish. But he didn’t reappear in a puff of smoke and wow a waiting audience.

He just didn’t come back at all.

I thought he'd at least drop by a show again. That's the sort of person he is. A near professional stalker. Relentless to a fault. Always willing to go the extra mile and push you until you're taut and stretched like elastic waiting to snap.

At Watford, he spent night after night trailing after me. He’s not the kind of person who just gives up. It's not like I've made myself difficult to find. The booking calendar is right there on my website. If he turned up to a show again, I wouldn’t run from him. I'd halt my act right there and then. I’d walk through the crowd, ignoring their stares and I'd stand before him and I'd—

I don't know. Kiss him? Demand answers? Let him crush my heart beneath his scruffy trainers?

I'd ambush him until I had no regrets. Because when Simon Snow is involved, I’ve always had an abundance. I’ve pushed him away and bitten my tongue. I’ve told him too much and not nearly enough. I've wished that I’d done more, that I’d never met him at all. I've—

"You have arrived at your destination," my SatNav announces.

I sigh as I find a spot to cram my car into. It hardly matters anyway.

He never came back.

And he likely never will.

It takes me a moment to gear myself. I wish I hadn't given my rabbit the day off. I scan the booking form again before I step out of the car. _A party for Mr. Stefan Sleet,_ the form says. My life is cursed to be ridiculous.

The townhouse in front of me is tall and narrow. The front door has been painted bright purple. Potted plants line the inside of the metal fence surrounding it—a touch of greenery in a small garden that’s almost entirely made of concrete. I knock and I wait. And when the door swings open, I take a full step back.

My mouth falls open. I have to make an effort to close it. “You’re not Stefan Sleet.”

An older, wilder-haired Penelope Bunce shakes her head. "You always were a sharp one, Basil."

“How—” I begin, but my words fizzle out of my tongue.

Bunce gives me a once over from beneath her now even-pointier glasses and I adjust my top hat self-consciously. Why does this keep happening? Why does every Watford reunion have to involve this fucking cloak?

"I’m here for a job," I say, because I'm professional, if nothing else. "Or at least I thought I was. I must’ve got the address wrong..."

"You didn't," Bunce says.

"I didn't?"

"Why don't you come inside?" she steps back and gestures at her hallway, but my feet stay routed to spot. “There’s no need to make this difficult.”

I'm about to say no. To refuse until she can provide me with some logical explanation. Then the door to the neighbouring house opens and an elderly woman clutching a bin bag steps outside, gives me a confused once-over, and then joins Bunce in her brow-furrowed stare. I adjust my top hat again with as much decorum as I can muster. I fear that if I stand here any longer, the neighbour may start pelting me with rubbish.

"Alright," I concede, following Bunce inside.

Her house is almost exactly what I'd imagine if I’d ever put any thought into the matter. It's quite the opposite of mine. Quirky and homely, with piles of books and magickal artifacts in all the right places. It’s cosy and lived-in. Charming, almost. If this moment wasn’t ranking in the top 5 strange experiences of my life, I might be quite interested in admiring her collection.

The room is empty with the exception of one man lounging on the sofa. He jumps to his feet, his smile warm and bright.

“Mr Sleet?” I say, extending my hand, and the man laughs as though I’ve told a joke.

“No, no, I’m just Shepard. And you’re Basil, right?" I recoil at the sound of my name on his tongue. With his American accent, it sounds like _Baze_ -il.

"Baz will do." I say curtly, conscious of the way my own voice sounds much posher in comparison.

"Cool. You're Simon's— _ow._ " He leaves the sentence hanging as Bunce elbows him. “You’re the magician, right? For the party?” He tries to catch himself, but it’s too late. I’m already narrowing my eyes.

“Simon?” I ask, my eyes flicking back to Bunce. “What about Simon?”

“He’s outside,” Shepard says, and then he winces again. “Penelope, would you stop attacking me?”

“I told you to let me handle this,” she hisses. “We had a plan.”

“This _is_ the plan.”

“How,” Bunce plants her hands on her hips, “is _this_ the plan?”

They continue their exchange, but none or it registers in my mind. My thoughts are stuck on Snow, like he's a net and I’m a helpless sea creature trapped in its nylon confines.

Simon's here _._ And _I'm_ here. And that means—

"Would _someone_ ," I interrupt, "please care to explain what’s going on?”

"Well—" Shepard starts, but Penny cuts him off with a look that makes him retreat back to the couch. He picks up a book with a demonic symbol on the front and opens it somewhere in the middle. Light reading in the Bunce household, I presume.

"Basil, I want you to know that Simon talked me into this. He's my best friend. You know I can't refuse him."

"Talked you into what?" I ask, my eyes sliding suspiciously back towards the book. “Is this some kind of demonic ritual?”

“Of course not.” Bunce’s nose wrinkles. "It’s not even a full moon. Just…talk to Simon. He can explain better than I can.”

He wants to see me? I want to see him. (Can I face him? What will I say?)

“You…" I say, struggling for words. "You do know that wasn’t in my contract.”

“It is actually,” Bunce says. “I wrote it in my email. An intimate venue with a small, appreciative crowd. That's us."

 _Appreciative?_ I almost scoff. Snow certainly didn’t seem appreciative when he was stomping out of my flat.

“Bunce, you are a wily creature. You are undoubtedly the most-”

“Brilliant woman that’s ever existed?” Shepard fills in, looking up from his book. "No. You're right. Not the right time. Carry on."

“You’re a very intelligent woman, I'll give you that. But I believe it says that I have the right to refuse should the circumstances be unfitting.”

“Yes,” she says. “And you could be a stubborn arse about it and leave. Or you could go out there and talk to him."

I hesitate. If I lean, I can see him through the kitchen window pacing around on the grass. And isn't a chance better than nothing? Isn't a spark that might light a match better than a musty pile of wood with no opportunity to kindle and ignite?

“Fine,” I say. “But I’d prefer not to have an audience for this one.”

Bunce picks up what appears to be the second volume of the book that Shepard's reading and settles down beside him on the couch. “Promise not to fight in my vegetable patch and I'll leave you alone.”

"Fine," I say again. “So...that way?”

“That way.” Bunce shoos me with a swish of her hand.

I walk past a kitchen filled with jars and spices. When I open the door to the garden, Simon’s standing in front of what must be Bunce’s vegetables, with a small tomato raised halfway to his mouth.

“You should wash that, you know,” I say.

He jumps, and turns to look at me. The tomato falls to the ground, but unlike that incessant red ball that Snow was always clutching in first year, it doesn't bounce back. “Baz!” he says. “You came.”

I can’t tell if he’s angry or pleased to see me. Perhaps it's some strange combination of both. He's gorgeous ( _of course_ he is) and casual in jeans and a striped t-shirt. Once again, I’m excessively overdressed. (And not in a good way.)

It’s a charming garden, but the small green space doesn’t feel big enough for the two of us. I pull the door closed behind me, but make no move to shift any closer. “So. You must be the famous Stefan Sleet?”

Snow runs his fingers through his curls and laughs in a way that’s more nerves than humour. “Thought you might like that one.”

“Yes. It is my life goal to meet every one one of your alter egos.”

“Would you have showed up if I’d used my real name?” Snow asks.

I don’t answer. We stare at each other from across the garden. He walks down a narrow path and gestures at an iron bench that’s bathed in the warmth of the sun.

“Why don’t you come sit down?” he says.

I don’t budge. I merely stare at him, completely unsure of how to proceed.

“Come on,” he says. “Don’t make me feel weird again.”

I tread the path that leads to him, all too aware that sitting beside him has only ever led me astray.

“You’re wore the hat,” he says, when I’m next to him.

“Of course I did. I thought this was a legitimate booking.”

“Did you?” Snow asks in surprise.

Yes. _No_. Perhaps. I can't decide on my answer, so I cross my arms instead. “You could’ve messaged me.”

“I didn’t have your number.”

“And you couldn’t think of any other way to contact me?”

“Well, I couldn’t exactly ring up the pub and ask ‘em for your details, could I? With data protection and all that, they’d never give it to me.”

I narrow my eyes. “Did you try that?”

“That’s not the point! The point is I that I didn’t know how else to reach you so—”

“You always found a way of showing up before.”

“I thought you might get a restraining order!”

“How is _this_ any better?”

Snow makes a noise of frustration. Twenty years ago, this might've been the point when he took a swing at me. The point where he boiled over and snapped. "I should’ve known that you’d be like this! Always fucking fighting. I’m tired of it, Baz. I don’t want to fight anymore.”

“No. You want to tap into my magic."

“Would you stop saying that!” Snow stands so abruptly that he almost kicks over a small maple tree. His fists are clenched. Maybe I was wrong before. Maybe _this_ is the part where he punches me. “I don’t give a shit about the magic!”

I shake my head. “Do you really expect me to believe—”

“Okay," Snow cuts me off. "Okay, no, you’re right. It was really fucking cool to do all that stuff, and I missed magic _,_ I really did, but that’s not why—” he rakes his hands through his hair. “That’s not the reason that—” he nudges at the grass with his trainer. “When you kicked me out, it felt so—"

“When you _stormed_ out,” I correct him.

“You didn’t stop me though, did you? You—” he kicks the grass again. "You wanted me to go! You were giving off _vibes_ and—" Penelope Bunce’s poor lawn will be torn up completely if he carries on at this rate. “Ugh, I’m so shit at this.”

I feel a pang of sympathy. He’s trying to explain himself, and I’m not helping at all. I want to hear him out. I want to let him bluster and muddle his way through until he gets to the meaning underneath. I didn’t even try to seek him out. He brought me here, when I didn’t deserve to be found. Even if nothing comes of this. Even if it really does end with Bunce's wrath and a fist fight on the vegetable patch. I owe it to him to listen.

I place my top hat on the spot beside me and unfasten my cape. I don’t want to be a mockery to magic. I want to be myself, in all my fucked up, closed-off glory. I want to be honest. I want to be the version of myself that I found in that brief, unbelievable moment when we saw stars.

I stand and step towards him. It’s a gesture of good faith. A white flag signalling that I want something more than an argument, that I’m finally willing to go for something other than the lowest possible blow.

I meet his eyes. “It’s safe to say that I’m not much better."

“No,” Snow says. “You’re worse. You're way, _way_ worse.”

A younger version of myself might have used that as an opportunity to snap back. I'd snarl and make a scene and prod Snow until he went off, solidifying our hatred for each other all the more. But I've never hated him. Or—no, that's not right. I've hated him, but I’ve always loved him more. My foolish heart never stopped.

"Maybe I am," I say. "But you're the one who paid for the privilege of having me here.”

"Yeah, well," Snow shrugs. "If you're a total arse I’ll claim for a refund. Which seems pretty likely at the moment...”

He stares at me adamantly, and it’s strange how his insult almost feels like a peace offering. I suppose that's how things are with me and him. Forwards is backwards. The world's always upside down.

But I think that I'd like to make sense of it.

For once, I want to try.

I step back and gesture towards the bench. "It didn’t last long, did it? That whole sitting thing. Maybe…” I look at him, hoping he can see I’m being genuine. “Perhaps we should try it again.”

"Yeah.” Snow nods, and I see the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Alright."

**SIMON**

I thought we’d planned for everything. I thought once Baz got here, then it’d all fall into place. But we never accounted for my fatal flaw. One glance at Baz, and my whole brain turns to mashed potatoes. (Not even nice mash, at that. Cold lumpy stuff with no butter or gravy. A disappointment to the entire culinary world.)

I guess I wasn't sure that he'd actually show up. Part of me thought he’d see the fake name and do a runner. I thought at best I'd get a slanderous letter signed _T. Basilton Grimm-Pitch_ in fancy cursive writing.

But he's here. And I'm tongue-tied. And it's really bloody inconvenient.

It's not like I didn't think about all the stuff I'd say to him. I laid awake for ages unjumbling my thoughts and having imaginary fights with my ceiling. Maybe if I close my eyes and pretend I'm there, that'd help. Or if I raid Shep and Penny's kitchen for any dregs of alcohol—a bottle of vodka wouldn't go amiss right now.

“So…” I cast the word out like a lure, praying that he bites and gives me something I can cling onto.

"So," he repeats, blinking at me as though the fact that I invited him here means that _I_ should be doing all the work.

“Look,” I say. "Can we just do this? That whole thing where we acknowledge what happened and I tell you that it meant something to me, and then you go and be all Baz about it and say, _well, it didn’t mean anything to me_ , and then—” My words halt and fade. That’s not what I want. That sounds pretty shit, actually.

“No,” Baz says.

“No?” I repeat.

“No,” he says again. “I won't say that it didn’t mean anything, because...that wouldn’t be truthful. And it’s about time that we were honest.”

“That's what I want! That’s why I invited you here!"

"Under false pretenses."

"Can we forget about that part?"

“That might be difficult...”

“ _You’re_ difficult!” I snap. “Something amazing happened between us, but you can’t even acknowledge it. We kissed, and you think the only explanation is that I’m using you for your magic? Did you ever stop to think that there might be another reason? That maybe it means something that it’s been fifteen years and you’re still the only fucking thing on my mind.”

I think Baz is holding his breath. I keep going, because I can’t stop. Because the words keep tumbling out.

“I know what it's like to feel used, Baz. And I wouldn’t do that, even to you. _Especiall_ y to you. I know this sounds weird, but I've spent all these years not knowing where I belong, and finding you again...it felt right.” Am I saying this? I think I am. “I don’t believe in destiny. I had enough of that prophecy bullshit at Watford. But I think that we were meant to meet again. And even if we weren't. Even if fate's a load of bollocks...I can't just forget that this happened!”

I raise my head and dare to look at him, and I've never seen his grey eyes look so...so warm. It gives me courage to face him. It gives me hope that I might have finally said something right. 

“I've never had much left to believe in," Baz says softly. "I lost my mother. I lost my place in the world. And I lost _you._ But I think about you too, Simon. Often. Dearly. I don't know how to stop.”

"You don't just mean murderously, right?" I ask. “Because if this is the moment you choose to remind me how long you’ve been plotting my downfall—”

"I don't just mean murderously. Well…” A small smile crosses Baz’s lips. “Not anymore. I missed you when you left. I hated that you were gone. I spent every night in our room, waiting for you to come back, but you never did. And the World of Mages felt so stagnant without you.”

“Is that…” It can’t be. There’s no way. “That’s not the reason you left, is it?”

“My mother taught me to love magic with all my heart. But I couldn't stand the way they kept rewriting your story. Not when I knew how hard you'd tried. How much you'd sacrificed for all of us."

"You don't know the whole story. You don’t even know half of it. I’m no hero, Baz. Everything was all my fault. I never belonged there in the first place."

"Yes, you did. You _do_. _I’m_ the one who doesn’t belong. I chose the worst possible way of staying close to magic. I mean, look at me. I’m a washed up birthday party entertainer."

“You’re a magician, Baz. Through and through. On the stage or at Watford, doesn’t matter.” I try to swallow, try to make space for the words to come out. “You’re brilliant. You always have been. You’re smart and you're fit and you make me feel things that no one else ever has. I don't want to lose you again. I want you in my life. I...I really like you.”

“You like me?” Baz crinkles his nose, but he’s flushed as his pink polka-dot bowtie. (Pub stage show. June 25th.) (I wish I could stop, but it’s knowledge that’s crammed into my brain forever.) (I guess I’ve been obsessed with Baz for longer than I ever cared to admit.) “You make it sound like we’re seventeen.”

“I wish we were. Because I’d do things differently. I’d kiss you sooner. I wouldn’t waste so many years wondering where you are.”

“It’s not too late, I hope. To apologise. To start again.”

I stand and extend my hand, the way I did on the first day we met.

I stand with my hand outstretched and a fire burning in my stomach, the same way I did twenty-two years ago.

This time, Baz doesn’t leave me hanging. His fingers grasp mine, and I pull him to his feet. Our hands stay clasped. Our eyes stay fixed on each other.

“It’s never too late to start again,” I say.

It’s not enough this time. I’m not satisfied by just his hand in mine. I pull him close, because I’m greedy. Because I can. Because his arms wrap around me when I do, fingers ghosting over the bumps of my shoulder blades where my wings are hidden.

“You know,” he murmurs by my ear, and it makes me smile, just having him close. The fact that he’s speaking to me and not vaulting over the garden fence. “I’m not even a particularly good magician. I’m certainly not the best in London.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” I say, the grin tugging wider at my lips. “I’ve heard that you’re in the top 100.”

Baz laughs, and then his lips find mine. He kisses me in Penny’s back garden, and I'm sure that her neighbour’s curtains must be twitching at the sight. He kisses me, and it's not charged with magic, but I almost like this better.

Because sometimes it's nice to just be ordinary. Sometimes, that just feels right.

**BAZ**

"So,” Snow says, pulling his mouth from mine. “I meant to ask last time, but are you gay then?"

I splutter in surprise. "Is now really the time to be asking that?"

"I know, but like. You really are. Proper gay and stuff? Wait. Did you-" Simon gasps, scandalised. "Did you fancy me at _Watford_?"

"I fancy the chances of you shutting up," I say. "But if you must know then, yes, to all of the above. I suppose it’s been quite some time."

"Whoa," Simon says, like he's processing that. He looks cute when he's thinking too much. “Do you...ever go back there? To Watford?”

"Sometimes,” I say. "Fairly often, actually. For my mother."

"Right," Snow says, his tone soft and cautious. "I...I do too. There's this spot near the woods for Ebb and I round up goats and go see her sometimes."

I swallow the lump in my throat. All the times we might have both been there, never crossing paths.

"Would you…" I swallow again. "We could go there together? I have an abundance of flowers that never seem to wilt thanks to you. And they’re more than I can carry on my own."

"Yeah," Snow says. “Yeah. Let me know when."

I'll ask for his number this time. I'll make sure he has a sensible way to contact me.

"We could even tour the grounds and reminisce," I say. "Share fond memories about the staircase you fell down—"

"That you _pushed_ me down."

I hum. "If you say so."

“You can’t rewrite history, you know. Even if you are my boyfriend.”

My heart stutters in my chest. "Am I your boyfriend?"

"Yeah!" Simon says, and then he flushes. "I mean…do you wanna be?"

 _Simon Snow’s boyfriend._ My younger self would never even dare to dream.

"Yes," I say, and then I kiss him again. I’m not sure I can stop. I’m not sure I’ll be able to drive home, knowing that this is an option now. Bunce might have to physically remove me from this very spot. Snow's fingers dig into my shoulder. His teeth tug on my lip.

“Perhaps this is best saved for later,” I say, a little breathlessly.

“Why? You’re not getting cold feet again, are you?”

“No, it’s just-” I lower my voice. “I’m not sure this is appropriate. Not in front of the vegetables.”

Simon laughs. It’s a sound that warms me from the inside, like a hot drink on a freezing day. Like the sun gleaming after a storm. “You’re really weird sometimes. Do you know that?”

“Where’s your fake moustache today?” I ask, and Snow just laughs louder.

“Okay, so, I have a question. And you might think it’s a bit forward since we’ve been going out for about three minutes, but...will you do something for me?”

I regard him suspiciously, though truthfully I’d probably say yes to anything.

"Will you perform for me?"

I splutter. "Perform?"

“Yeah. Like a magic show. I always had to watch you from far away before, and I’d kinda like to see it up close, so…”

“No,” I say.

“Oh, go on! I paid the deposit.”

“I’ll refund you.”

“It’ll be great!” Snow says. “You _love_ showing off!”

I frown at him. He blinks those blue eyes at me, and I don't know how to say no. I sigh as dramatically as my lungs will allow. "I'm not wearing the hat."

"Nope. Not good enough. I want the hat and a proper show and I want a balloon animal. A unicorn. Named Simon."

"There is no chance in the world that I'm making you a unicorn."

"You owe me!"

"No unicorns. But you may have one trick."

"Deal! Shall I get Shep and Penny?”

“Please don't."

“Shep!” Simon bellows. “Penny!”

The back door swings open, almost like they were waiting. Or eavesdropping. I eye a tomato plant suspiciously, seeking out listening devices.

"Hey," Shepard offers us a warm smile. "So…how are things?"

Penny steps out into the garden, her sharp stare taking us in. "No bruises. That's a good sign."

"Is it?" Shepard asks.

"Oh, yes. Absolutely."

"Things have never been better." Simon grins. "Baz is gonna do a show!"

"No," I protest. "Honestly. You don't want me to."

They force me into it. They squish onto the bench and stare at me and I have no choice but to comply. I stand before them on the grass. (I refuse to wear the hat.) ( _Snow_ wears the hat.)

"Introducing…" Simon booms. " _Abracabazra_!"

"Thank you for coming," I say in my best stage voice. "I hate you all for this. Especially you." I point to Snow, who has the audacity to woop.

I don't have a plan for this. I left all my equipment in the car. But there are cards in my pocket, so I make do. I shuffle and extend them to Bunce so she can pick one.

"The Two of Diamonds," I announce.

There's a burst of light and a loud pop. She shrieks as the card explodes to dust in her hand, shimmering into a rush of stars.

"Wordless magic?" Shepard murmurs.

"Wicked!" Simon says.

"How?" Bunce demands.

"Wonderful!" Bunce's elderly neighbour claps from her open upstairs window. "Do another!"

"I could use an assistant,” I say. “Simon?” I extend my hand. “Would you care to join me?”

His smile is bright like the sun.

This is the kind of magic I love most.

**SIMON**

Call me old fashioned, but waking up in Baz's flat is a lot better when I'm in his bed. It's comfier. And it's nicer. And when I manage to get my eyes open and roll over groggily, Baz actually looks happy to see me.

It’s only my second time here. The first time I've stayed over again since...you know. And it's the sort of thing I could get used to. His bed is a thousand times comfier than mine. I’d probably stay here all day if I could. I’m content and I’m warm and nothing’s gonna drag me out of bed.

And then I remember the bacon.

Baz's kitchen doesn't seem so intimidatingly empty anymore. Not now I've stuffed it with basic necessities. (I brought a bag full of shopping I picked up on the way.) (It was actually part of my terms and conditions for staying over.) I gathered all the necessities for a nice bacon butty this morning, but when I start to rummage through his cooking utensils, Baz whips the pan from my hand.

“Don’t bother making breakfast,” he says.

“But—" I say. "But bacon?"

"No bacon," he says, tying his hair back into a messy bun.

"No bacon?" I gasp, feeling my heart shatter. "Then what will we eat? Please, Baz, anything but Muesli."

"Not Muesli either. I'm making pancakes."

“Pancakes?” I ask hopefully.

“They’re not for you. They're for the rabbit.”

I laugh, but Baz’s expression is dead serious. He...he's joking, right?

“For the rabbit?”

“Yes,” Baz says. “Go fetch him. Second door on the left. Tell him it's breakfast time."

I realise, as I head off down the corridor, that I’m nervous. I’ve been wanting to get up close and personal with this fluffy little bloke for a while, but as I approach the door where Baz said he’d be, it almost feels like a meet-the-parents kind of scenario. Like the next step in our relationship is sitting down opposite the rabbit in a suit and asking for permission to go out with Baz.

It’s typical that he’s got his own room. I’m pretty sure he roams free when I’m not around, if the toys and the plush rabbit bed in the living room is anything to go by. (It’s _velvet_. He really does lead a more pampered life than me.)

“Hello?” I say, knocking cautiously. “Can I come in?” No reply. Of course not. _It's a rabbit_. “I’m coming in.”

When I open the door, my jaw drops. There isn't a rabbit hutch on the other side. There’s a fucking lagomorph mansion. It has several floors, and what looks like a working CCTV system. And the top of it is shaped like a tower.

The bunny is perched on what appears to be a throne. No wonder Baz was afraid to let me meet him. This is _mental_.

“Hiya,” I say, holding my hand up in a wave. “Baz says brekkie’s ready so...come out, you posh hopper.” He stares blankly at me from his rabbity throne. (Merlin. I wish I was making this up.) “I’ve got food.” I grab a carrot and tap it against the entrance, and he bounces forward. "You’re a greedy guts, aren’t you. You're just like-"

“Snow!” Baz calls out, and the rabbit looks up, his ears twitching. “Can you two hurry up? The pancakes are going to burn.”

“Snow?” I say, and his nose twitches this time. “Stefan.” He stares blankly, unmoving. "Barry?" Nothing. "Snow?” Another twitch. “Do you...do you know my name?”

It must be a coincidence. Animals are weird. It must be, but—

"Wait a minute." Something catches my eye. There’s a small wooden plaque at the top of the castle, and in fancy calligraphy, it says _Snow._

“Is that…” I say, and the rabbit blinks at me. “Are you…”

I push to my feet and race down the hallway, dangling the carrot behind me so the rabbit follows. I burst into the kitchen, propelling myself towards Baz who leaps back from a second frying pan filled with larger, human-sized pancakes.

“There you are,” he says affectionately, and it takes me a moment to realise he’s smiling at the rabbit and not me.

"Snow!" I proclaim. "Snow!" I say, pointing at myself. " _Snow_!" I shout, gesturing at the rabbit.

"No," Baz says, and I swear there's more colour in his cheeks than I've ever seen. "No. No. You're mistaken. That's not-"

"You named your rabbit after me! You feed him pancakes and you love him and you named him after _me._ "

"That’s not-” Baz coughs. “He…he was already named that. It was purely coincidental!"

I lean in. I crowd Baz in front of the stove top, and he lowers his head, trying to hide his blush.

“You make fun of me for being sentimental and you’re worse than me. _That’s_ why you wouldn’t let me meet him. Fuck, Baz, you’re so soft!”

“What was I supposed to call him?” Baz snaps defensively. “He’s messy and he’s obsessed with food and he loves to cause a scene and he’s the same colour as your hair and-”

"And you missed me," I say, and he tenses.

I gaze at him, until he surrenders. Until he leans into me too, his hand resting tentatively on my hip.

“And I missed you,” he admits.

The softness in his voice makes me shiver. He touches my cheek with his long fingers and leans down. My breath catches. My lips part. He-

“Ow!” I say, hopping back as Snow the Second headbutts my foot.

The pan sizzles. “Ah yes! Thank you for reminding us,” Baz says to the rabbit. “And you,” he says, prodding me in the chest. “Stop being lovely. It’s distracting.”

He turns away to fuss over his pancakes, and I lean back and watch him. I can’t stop myself from grinning.

I used to think magic was just big stuff. Going off, saving the world. It was huge and terrifying and out of my control.

But there’s power in small moments. In soft words and shared smiles and the sweet smell of breakfast.

I really could get used to this.

I think _this_ could be magic too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> I would normally link my tumblr, but I thought I'd link a [stalker blog](https://abracabazra.tumblr.com/) I made for Simon as a joke instead (just in case you weren't already completely convinced that I'm a very silly person)


End file.
